France Lost A Great Novel Last Night.

The Cruel Of Heart Have Their Own Black Happiness.

Be Like The Bird Who, Pausing In Her Flight Awhile On Boughs Too Slight, Feels Them Give Way Beneath Her, And Yet Sings, Knowing She Hath Wings.

Love Is Reducing The Universe To One Being.

Genuflection Before The Idol Or The Dollar Destroys The Muscles Which Walk And The Will That Moves.

There Is A Sacred Horror About Everything Grand. It Is Easy To Admire Mediocrity And Hills; But Whatever Is Too Lofty, A Genius As Well As A Mountain, An Assembly As Well As A Masterpiece, Seen Too Near, Is Appalling.