Ceaseless as the interminable voices of the bell-cricket, all night till dawn my tears flow.

For me coming back here, it means a lot. This room, in particular. There were some tears shed. A lot

There, Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb
The crowns o' the world.
Oh, eyes sublime
With tears and laughter for all time.

I will take it all: tongs, molten lead, prongs, garrotes, all that burns, all that tears, I want to truly suffer. Better one hundred bites, better the whip, vitriol, than this suffering in the head, this ghost of suffering which grazes and caresses and never hurts enough.

Joe Frazier is so ugly that when he cries, the tears turn around and go down the back of his head.