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— Hilaire Belloc"In soft deluding lies let fools delight. A shadow marks our days, which end in Night."
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That I grow sour, who only lack delight; That I descend to sneer, who only grieve: That from my depth I should contemn your height; That with my blame my mockery you receive; Huntress and splendour of the woodland night, Diana of this world, do not believe.
— Hilaire Belloc
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In the garden of tabloid delight, there is always a clean towel and another song.
— Lewis H. Lapham
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