How Many Of Our Daydreams Would Darken

The Notion Of Making Money By Popular Work, And Then Retiring To Do Good Work, Is The Most Familiar Of All The Devil's Traps For Artists.

Those Who Talk On The Razor-edge Of Double-meanings Pluck The Rarest Blooms From The Precipice On Either Side.

What Shall I Compare It To, This Fantastic Thing I Call My Mind? To A Waste-paper Basket, To A Sieve Choked With Sediment, Or To A Barrel Full Of Floating Froth And Refuse? No, What It Is Really Most Like Is A Spider's Web, Insecurely Hung On Leaves And Twigs, Quivering In Every Wind, And Sprinkled With Dewdrops And Dead Flies. And At Its Centre, Pondering Forever The Problem Of Existence, Sits Motionless The Spider-like And Uncanny Soul.

All Our Lives We Are Putting Pennies — Our Most Golden Pennies — Into Penny-in-the-slot Machines That Are Almost Always Empty.

The World Is Not Unkind, And Reprobates Are Worse Than Their Reputations.