“I want to be Lon Chaney. I want to be Karloff. I want to help people escape the mundane world. I want to make their skins crawl. And I want them to love it every bit as much as I do.”

Lincoln is me. He is America. He is what makes us a great nation and a dangerous nation, all wrapped up in one man.

The live audience is a blind date. The camera is a hungry lover. One wants to be wined and dined and seduced and then decide where the evening will go.

Ask questions. Listen. Be quiet. Be willing to make a fool of yourself. Be willing to be completely exposed and to give all you’ve got and to be rejected for your troubles. But expect magic to happen. It just might. And don’t worry about winning the audition, just win the room.

Lincoln could be on the moon. He’s still Lincoln.

The other knows how it wants to be touched, wants it now and can damn well tell if you are lying about it. Both are fickle. Both feel good. Depends on your mood.

I am pre-disposed to try and show the conflict; the regret; the less-than-perfect choices that any human faces. That’s what I like and it seems to be what the camera likes to see me do.

All you have to do to be a camera actor is tell the truth.

The fact that Abraham Lincoln ever, ever became President is either a freak accident of history… or destiny; God’s providence to America.

Abraham Lincoln is resolute, honest, has the best interest of the nation at heart, and he’s as ugly as homemade Sunday sin, so he is modest, too. I’d vote for that in an undead heartbeat.

Take every job. Learn everybody’s name. Show up early. Know who you are and know who you’re not. Stop dreaming and start trying.

I attribute a scab to the present state of society. The way the scab looks in its worst state is gross and chaotic and horrible, that’s now, but when it breaks away, there’s a brand new piece of skin that’s stronger than before. It’s like creation out of chaos.

Hooves clomping over the whitewashed planks, Doren sprinted along the boardwalk after Rondus, a portly satyr with butterscotch fur and horns that curved away from each other. Puffing hard, Rondus cut through a gazebo and started down the stairs to the field.

I think what makes someone pretty amazing is being comfortable in your own skin.

An excuse is a skin of a reason stuffed with a lie.

It is not something I earned or acquired or bought (the ability to pitch). It is a gift. It is something that was given to me – just like the color of my skin.

My engineer dad is where my technical acumen comes from. I remember him taking me to the factories to see how what works.

Poverty has a home in Africalike a quiet second skin.It may be the only place on earth where it is worn with unconscious dignity.

You deal with failure – strike, strike, strike – all the time. Acting is like that. You have to have a very thick skin in a way – your hair is too dark, you’re too ugly for the part, your audition wasn’t good.