Those Doves Below, The Ones Utterly Cared

All This Hurrying Soon Will Be Over. Only When We Tarry Do We Touch The Holy.

Nothing Touches A Work Of Art So Little As Criticism.

Fame, That Public Destruction Of One In Process Of Becoming, Into Whose Building-ground The Mob Breaks, Displacing His Stones.

There Is Only One Solitude, And It Is Vast, Heavy, Difficult To Bear, And Almost Everyone Has Hours When He Would Gladly Exchange It For Any Kind Of Sociability, However Trivial Or Cheap, For The Tiniest Outward Agreement With The First Person Who Comes Along.

Where I Create, There I Am True.