Good Drama Should Sandpaper The Mind.

Ballet's Image Of Perfection Is Fashioned Amid A Milieu Of Wracked Bodies, Fevered Imaginations, Balkan Intrigue And Sulfurous Hatreds Where Anything Is Likely, And Dancers Know It.

In A Nation Of Celebrity Worshipers, Amid Followers Of The Cult Of Personality, Individual Modesty Becomes A Heroic Quality. I Find Heroism In The Acceptance Of Anonymity, In The Studied Resistance To The Normal American Tropism Toward The Limelight.

How Is The Newcomer To Deal With Rome? What Is One To Make Of This Marble Rubble, This Milk Of Wolves, This Blood Of Caesars, This Sunrise Of Renaissance, This Baroquery Of Blown Stone, This Warm Hive Of Italians, This Antipasto Of Civilization?

The Paradox Of Reality Is That No Image Is As Compelling As The One Which Exists Only In The Mind's Eye.

Mind And Body Are Not To Be Taken Lightly. Their Connection Is Intimate And Mysterious, And Better Mapped By Poets Than Pornographers.