There Are Moments Of Existence When Time

Nature Is A Temple, Where The Living Columns Sometimes Breathe Confusing Speech; Man Walks Within These Groves Of Symbols, Each Of Which Regards Him As A Kindred Thing.

Genius Is Nothing More Nor Less Than Childhood Recaptured At Will.

I Am A Cemetery By The Moon Unblessed.

Progress, This Great Heresy Of Decay.

The Study Of Beauty Is A Duel In Which The Artist Cries Out In Terror Before He Is Defeated.