One Pinch, a hungry lean-fac'd villain, A mere anatomy, a mountebank, A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller, A needy, hollow-ey'd, sharp-looking wretch, A living-dead man.
The acceptance that all that is solid has melted into the air, that reality and morality are not givens but imperfect human constructs, is the point from which fiction begins.
