Love, Smoke And A Cough Cannot Long

Perhaps The Old Monks Were Right When They Tried To Root Love Out; Perhaps The Poets Are Right When They Try To Water It. It Is A Blood-red Flower, With The Color Of Sin; But There Is Always The Scent Of A God About It.

I Am Always Thirsting For Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful Music. I Wish I Could Make It. Perhaps There Isn't Any Music On Earth Like What I Picture To Myself.

My Feeling Is That There Is Nothing In Life But Refraining From Hurting Others, And Comforting Those Who Are Sad.

There's Something Beautiful About Finding One's Innermost Thoughts In Another.

[finishing Schools] Are Nicely Adapted Machines For Experimenting On The Question, "into How Little Space A Human Being Can Be Crushed?" I Have Seen Some Souls So Compressed That They Would Have Fitted Into A Small Thimble, And Found Room To Move . . .