We Will Die, But Art Will Remain.

A Day Without A Dark Cloud. Almost A Happy Day. There Were Three Thousand Six Hundred And Fifty-three Days Like That In His Stretch. From The First Clang Of The Rail To The Last Clang Of The Rail. Three Thousand Six Hundred And Fifty-three Days. The Three Extra Days Were For Leap Years.

The Sole Substitute For An Experience Which We Have Not Ourselves Lived Through Is Art And Literature.

The Foundation Stones Of A Great Building Are Destined To Groan And Be Pressed Upon; It Is Not For Them To Crown The Edifice.

A State Of War Only Serves As An Excuse For Domestic Tyranny.

In Our Village, Folks Say God Crumbles Up The Old Moon Into Stars.