Tilling The Fertile Soil Of Man's Vanity.

I Would Write Of The Universal, Not The Provincial, In Human Nature.... I Would Write Of Characters, Not Of Characteristics.

You Look As If You Had Lived On Duty And It Hadn't Agreed With You.

Spring Was Running In A Thin Green Flame Over The Valley.

What Was Time Itself But The Bloom, The Sheath Enfolding Experience? Within Time, And With Time Alone, There Was Life - The Gleam, The Quiver, The Heartbeat, The Immeasurable Joy And Anguish Of Being.

To Mourn Was Distressing, But To Endeavor To Mourn And Fail Was Worse Than Distress.