A Million Candles Have Burned Themselves Out.

When A Madman Appears Thoroughly Sane, Indeed, It Is High Time To Put Him In A Straight Jacket.

He Must Be Theory-mad Beyond Redemption Who ... Shall ... Persist In Attempting To Reconcile The Obstinate Oils And Waters Of Poetry And Truth.

For Years Your Name Never Passed My Lips, While My Soul Drank In, With A Delirious Thirst, All That Was Uttered In My Presence Respecting You.

A Short Story Must Have A Single Mood And Every Sentence Must Build Towards It.

I Dread The Events Of The Future, Not In Themselves But In Their Results.