There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed, done with.

Survival is triumph enough.

Teaching, real teaching, is - or ought to be - a messy business.

What the artist owes the world is his work; not a model for living.

He did not know what love was. And he did not know what good it was. But he knew he carried it around with him, a scabrous spot of rot, of contagion, for which there was no cure.