During my senior year I joined Skull and Bones, a secret society, so secret I can't say anything more.
Every writer is a frustrated actor who recites his lines in the hidden auditorium of his skull.
I see ... a pile of skulls and bones. For the first time since my arrival, what I see before me is too painful, and I break down completely. These are my relatives, friends and neighbors, I keep thinking ... It is a long time before I am calm again. And then I am able, with my bare hands, to rearrange the skulls and bones so that they are not scattered about.
Death and burial were a public spectacle. Shakespeare may have seen for himself the gravediggers at St Ann's, Soho, playing skittles with skulls and bones.
I'm tired of being ruled by the Skull and Bones. The only place they belong are on punk-rock albums!
You know, many people believe that we archaeologists are just a collection of old fogies digging around in the ruins after old dried up skulls and bones.
I love prints of skulls and bones and have some taxidermy - a crow and a rabbit - to remind me of home. I like art and have a big portrait of Bjork.
We pretend to be a middle class, democratic nation, but in reality we love our blue bloods. ... We love the prep school manners, the aristocratic calm, the Skull and Bones mystery, the dappled lawns stretching before New England summer homes. How else can be explained the Bush vs. Kerry match-up that confronts us this year?
This is no different than what happens at the Skull and Bones initiation. I'm talking about people having a good time, these people, you ever heard of emotional release? You ever heard of the need to blow some steam off?
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