I Think Now That The Great Thing

Suicide Kills Two People.

Data Is A Lot Like Humans: It Is Born. Matures. Gets Married To Other Data, Divorced. Gets Old. One Thing That It Doesn't Do Is Die. It Has To Be Killed.

Few Occasions Are As Joyous To Small Children As Funerals, Almost Better Than The Big Wedding Blowouts That Take Place At Night When It's Hard To Stay Awake. A Small Boy Will Never Be Harshly Criticized At A Funeral; He Is More Treasured As Death Comes Close And All His Wickedness Vanishes Before The Inescapable Fact That Thank God, He Is Healthy.

I Don't Know A Critic Who Penetrates The Center Of Anything.

No One Wants The Truth If It Is Inconvenient.