There Is No Truth. Only Points Of

One's Own Surroundings Means So Much To One, When One Is Feeling Miserable.

In The Augustan Age ... Poetry Was ... The Sister Of Architecture; With The Romantics, And Their Heightened Vowel-sense, Resulting In Different Melodic Lines, She Became The Sister Of Music; In The Present Day, She Appears Like The Sister Of Horticulture, Each Poem Growing According To The Law Of Its Own Nature.

Another Little Drink Wouldn't Do Us Any Harm.

The Arts Are Life Accelerated And Concentrated.

I'm Afraid I'm Being An Awful Nuisance.