Art, even the art of fullest scope and widest vision, can never really show us the external world. All that it shows us is our own soul, the one world of which we have any real cognisance. And the soul itself, the soul of each one of us, is to each one of us a mystery. It hides in the dark and broods, and consciousness cannot tell us of its workings. Consciousness, indeed, is quite inadequate to explain the contents of personality. It is Art, and Art only, that reveals us to ourselves.

Because I fuckin' love you Mia...That didn't come out exactly as I'd planned, but it is the truth. I'm in love with you...

All I know is, being away from you......makes it hard to breathe. I miss you so much

I__ not a lot of trouble,_ she said.His gaze slid to her mouth. __ou sure about that?___ompletely._ And then she flashed him an indeed trouble-filled smile.And that__ when he knew. He was the one in trouble. Deep trouble.

I believe that if one man were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream - I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of medievalism, and return to the Hellenic ideal - to something finer, richer, than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals.

Dempseys are never in trouble. We just have stretches of life that are more interesting than others.