For People Who Like That Kind Of

Great Men Are But Life-sized. Most Of Them, Indeed, Are Rather Short.

Incongruity Is The Mainspring Of Laughter.

For A Young Man, Sleep Is A Sure Solvent Of Distress. There Whirls Not For Him In The Night Any So Hideous Phantasmagoria As Will Not Become, In The Clarity Of The Next Morning, A Spruce Procession For Him To Lead. Brief The Vague Horror Of His Awakening; Memory Sweeps Back To Him, And He Sees Nothing Dreadful After All. "why Not?" Is The Sun's Bright Message To Him, And "why Not Indeed?" His Answer.

Fate Weaves The Darkness, Which Is Perhaps Why She Weaves So Badly.

I May Be Old Fashioned, But I Am Right.