The Moor Has Done His Work, The

You Worthy Critics, Or Whatever You May Call Yourselves, Are Ashamed Or Afraid Of The Momentary And Passing Madness Which Is Found In All Real Creators, The Longer Or Shorter Duration Of Which Distinguishes The Thinking Artist From The Dreamer. Hence Your Complaints Of Unfruitfulness, For You Reject Too Soon And Discriminate Too Severely.

Rarely Do We Arrive At The Summit Of Truth Without Running Into Extremes; We Have Frequently To Exhaust The Part Of Error, And Even Of Folly, Before We Work Our Way Up To The Noble Goal Of Tranquil Wisdom.

Death Is A Mighty Mediator. There All The Flames Of Rage Are Extinguished, Hatred Is Appeased, And Angelic Pity, Like A Weeping Sister, Bends With Gentle And Close Embrace Over The Funeral Urn.

It Is Play And Only Play That Makes Man Complete.

We, We Live! Ours Are The Hours, And The Living Have Their Claims.