...the Peculiar Air Of Oxford-the Air Of

When I Am Wicked I Am In High Spirits.

The Critical Sense Is So Far From Frequent That It Is Absolutely Rare, And The Possession Of The Cluster Of Qualities That Minister To It Is One Of The Highest Distinctions... In This Light One Sees The Critic As The Real Helper Of The Artist, A Torchbearing Outrider, The Interpreter, The Brother... Just In Proportion As He Is Sentient And Restless, Just In Proportion As He Reacts And Reciprocates And Penetrates, Is The Critic A Valuable Instrument.

A Swift Carriage, Of A Dark Night, Rattling With Four Horses Over Roads That One Can’t See--that’s My Idea Of Happiness.

I Am Incapable Of Telling You Not To Feel. Feel, Feel, I Say - Feel For All You're Worth, And Even If It Half Kills You, For That Is The Only Way To Live.

Deep Experience Is Never Peaceful.