There Is In The Human Race Some

She Was One Of Those People Who Said I Don't Know Anything About Music, But I Know What I Like.

Every Kind Of Writing Is Hypocritical.

No Roman Ever Was Able To Say, 'i Dined Last Night With The Borgias'.

For A Young Man, Sleep Is A Sure Solvent Of Distress. There Whirls Not For Him In The Night Any So Hideous Phantasmagoria As Will Not Become, In The Clarity Of The Next Morning, A Spruce Procession For Him To Lead. Brief The Vague Horror Of His Awakening; Memory Sweeps Back To Him, And He Sees Nothing Dreadful After All. "why Not?" Is The Sun's Bright Message To Him, And "why Not Indeed?" His Answer.

The Non-conformist Conscience Makes Cowards Of Us All.