We ought to thank God for that. Yes, the man who tills the land is more worthy of respect than any.

M-G-M knew how to build stars. We used to do constant publicity stills. You were the Easter bunny one time and a Christmas tree the next. When I went to Japan, they knew who I was. Now you have a great actress and a year later, they ask, 'What happened to her?'

Truly, this is a nation that sees itself as one that instills hope and is really about allowing people to pursue their dreams.

Just like Steve did, Bindi's got that strange communication with wildlife. It's beautiful to watch, and it instills an empathy with all of us about just how important the animal kingdom is.

Coach Pederson, for me, the communication we have is clear, and it's an open line. He really respects my opinion on plays. If I'm feeling something... he instills a lot of confidence in me. That is huge.

Art distills sensations and embodies it with enhanced meaning.

Realizing the seriously ruthless, venomous habits and agendas of evil always instills a more fierce passion and longing for a closer God. Men, out of pride, may claim their own authorities over what constitutes good and evil; they may self-proclaim a keen knowledge of subjective morality through religion or science. But that is only if they are acknowledging the work of evil as a cartoon-like, petty little rain cloud in the sky that merely wants to dampen one's spirits. On the contrary, a man could be without a doubt lit with the strength, the peace, and the knowledge of the Gods, his Gods, but when or if the devils grow weary in unsuccessful attempts to torment him, they begin tormenting his loved ones, or, if not his loved ones, anyone who may attempt to grasp his philosophies. No matter how Godly he may become, God is, in the end, his only hope and his only grace for the pressures built around him - it is left up to a higher authority and a more solid peace and a wider love to eclipse not just one's own evils but all evils for goodness to ultimately matter. If all men were Gods, each being would dwell in a separate prison cell, hopeless, before finally imploding into nothingness.

There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in its life, more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves the nest it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, singing among the savage branches, it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine. And, dying, it rises above its own agony to outcarol the lark and the nightingale. One superlative song, existence the price. But the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven smiles. For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain? Or so says the legend.

We ought to thank God for that. Yes the man who tills the land is more worthy of respect than any.