Fine Writers Should Split Hairs Together, And

It Is Through The Cracks In Our Brains That Ecstasy Creeps In.

But Why Wasn't I Born, Alas, In An Age Of Adjectives; Why Can One No Longer Write Of Silver-shedding Tears And Moon-tailed Peacocks, Of Eloquent Death, Of The Negro And Star-enameled Night?

Hearts That Are Delicate And Kind And Tongues That Are Neither - These Make The Finest Company In The World.

He Who Goes Against The Fashion Is Himself Its Slave

It Is The Dread Of Something Happening, Something Unknown And Dreadful, That Makes Us Do Anything To Keep The Flicker Of Talk From Dying Out.