End Is A Gloomy Word.

I Hold It To Be The Inalienable Right Of Anybody To Go To Hell In His Own Way.

A True Sonnet Goes Eight Lines And Then Takes A Turn For Better Or Worse And Goes Six Or Eight Lines More.

Any Eye Is An Evil Eye That Looks In On To A Mood Apart.

What Is Done Is Done For The Love Of It- Or Not Really Done At All.

How Are We To Write The Russian Novel In America As Long As Life Goes So Unterribly?