A Critic Is A Lug-worm In The

You See, Nothing Matters Except Pleasure - Which Is The Opposite Of Happiness, Its Tragic Part, I Expect.

Who Invented The Human Heart, I Wonder? Tell Me, And Then Show Me The Place Where He Was Hanged.

They Flower Spontaneously Out Of The Demands Of Our Natures - And The Best Of Them Lead Us Not Only Outward In Space, But Inward As Well.

Gamblers And Lovers Really Play To Lose.

Everyone Loathes His Own Country And Countrymen If He Is Any Sort Of Artist.