What Are Stars But Points In The

A Critic Is A Lug-worm In The Liver Of Literature.

No History Much? Perhaps. Only This Ominous Dark Beauty Flowering Under Veils, Trapped In The Spectrum Of A Dying Style: A Village Like An Instinct Left To Rust, Composed Around The Echo Of A Pistol-shot.

People Only See In Us The Contemptible Skirt-fever Which Rules Our Actions But Completely Miss The Beauty-hunger Underlying It.

Love Is Like Trench Warfare - You Cannot See The Enemy, But You Know He Is There And That It Is Wiser To Keep Your Head Down.

Everyone Loathes His Own Country And Countrymen If He Is Any Sort Of Artist.