No-one Was Ever Made Wretched In A

Most People Do Not Believe In Anything Very Much And Our Greatest Poetry Is Given To Us By Those Who Do.

We Are All Serving A Life Sentence In The Dungeon Of The Self.

Words Today Are Like The Shells And Rope Of Seaweed Which A Child Brings Home Glistening From The Beach And Which In An Hour Have Lost Their Luster.

In Youth The Life Of Reason Is Not In Itself Sufficient; Afterwards The Life Of Emotion, Except For Short Periods, Becomes Unbearable.

The Only Way For Writers To Meet Is To Share A Quick Peek Over A Common Lamp-post.