Whose tale more sad than thine, whose lot more dire? O Oedipus, discrowned head, Thy cradle was thy marriage bed.

The boy could see in his father's gaze a desire to be able, himself, to travel the world—a desire that was still alive, despite his father's having had to bury it, over dozens of years, under the burden of struggling for water to drink, food to eat, and the same place to sleep every night of his life.

Unless each man produces more than he receives, increases his output, there will be less for him than all the others.

I confess it, I love the camera. When it&#39;s not on me, I&#39;m not quite alive.

Written By Genevieve Bujold

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