I have been wounded like this since about half past eight this morning and I will tell you how it happened.

There is always inequality in life. Some men are killed in a war and some men are wounded and some men never leave the country. Life is unfair.

Show me your hands. Do they have scars from giving? Show me your feet. Are they wounded in service? Show me your heart. Have you left a place for divine love?

For us artists there waits the joyous compromise through art with all that wounded or defeated us in daily life in this way not to evade destiny as the ordinary people try to do but to fulfil it in its true potential - the imagination.

It is usually the imagination that is wounded first rather than the heart it being much more sensitive.

Take for example the African jungle the home of the cheetah. On whom does the cheetah prey? The old the sick the wounded the weak the very young but never the strong. Lesson: If you would not be prey you had better be strong.

With the help of a friend I got father into a wagon when the crowd had gone. I held his head in my lap during the ride home. I believed he was mortally wounded. He had been stabbed down through the kidneys leaving an ugly wound.

Well look at what people are doing for returned veterans now. The wounded warriors. They're working hard to make the wounded veterans feel that they are loved and welcomed home unlike Vietnam. It was not a very kind gentle world then. I think we are kinder and gentler.

They died hard those savage men - like wounded wolves at bay. They were filthy and they were lousy and they stunk. And I loved them.

I hope that no more groans of wounded men and women will ever go to the ear of the Great Spirit Chief above and that all people may be one people.