Love Is A State In Which A

Many Find Their Heart When They Have Lost Their Head.

Speaking Of Georges Bizet: His Music Has The Tang Of Sunny Climates, Their Bracing Air, Their Clearness. It Voices A Sensibility Hitherto Unknown To Us.

One's Own Self Is Well Hidden From One's Own Self; Of All Mines Of Treasure, One's Own Is The Last To Be Dug Up.

Priests ... These Turkey-cocks Of God.

No Price Is Too High To Pay For The Privilege Of Owning Yourself.