A Grave, Wherever Found, Preaches A Short

Death Should Take Me While I Am In The Mood.

What, In The Name Of Common-sense, Had I To Do With Any Better Society Than I Had Always Lived In?

Eager Souls, Mystics And Revolutionaries, May Propose To Refashion The World In Accordance With Their Dreams; But Evil Remains, And So Long As It Lurks In The Secret Places Of The Heart, Utopia Is Only The Shadow Of A Dream

Religion And Art Spring From The Same Root And Are Close Kin. Economics And Art Are Strangers.

The Book, If You Would See Anything In It, Requires To Be Read In The Clear, Brown, Twilight Atmosphere In Which It Was Written; If Opened In The Sunshine, It Is Apt To Look Exceedingly Like A Volume Of Blank Pages.