The Great Artist Is A Slave To

The Body Of A Sensualist Is The Coffin Of A Dead Soul.

Our Opinions Partake, More Or Less, Of The Prejudices Of Our Class, Party, Or Sect. We Are All Largely Pledged, Through Interest, Affection, Or Passion, To Particular Classes Of Opinion, And The Strength Of Efforts To Get Released From These Pledges, Is The Measure Of Our Advancement.

Winter Is The Night Of Vegetation.

The Cure For Tender Sensibilities Is To Make More Of Our Objects And Less Of Our Selves.

All Good Writing Leaves Something Unexpressed.