Small Talk Comes From Small Bones

Until You Know Who Has Lent What To Whom, You Know Nothing Whatever Of Politics, You Know Nothing Whatever Of History, You Know Nothing Of International Wrangles.

Yet The Companions Of The Muses Will Keep Their Collective Nose In My Books And Weary With Historical Data, They Will Turn To My Dance Tune.

The Apparition Of These Faces In The Crowd; Petals On A Wet Black Bough.

Allow Me To Say That I Would Long Since Have Committed Suicide Had Desisting Made Me A Professor Of Latin.

Fundamental Accuracy Of Statement Is The One Sole Morality Of Writing.