Prose Is Like Hair; It Shines With

I Go Dreaming Into The Future, Where I See Nothing, Nothing. I Have No Plans, No Idea, No Project, And, What Is Worse, No Ambition. Something – The Eternal ‘what’s The Use?’ – Sets Its Bronze Barrier Across Every Avenue That I Open Up In The Realm Of Hypothesis.

She Did Not Believe That Things Could Remain The Same In Different Places, And Since The Portion Of Her Life That Lay Behind Her Had Been Bad, No Doubt That Which Remained To Be Lived Would Be Better.

A Friend Who Dies, It's Something Of You Who Dies.

Art Requires Neither Complaisance Nor Politeness; Nothing But Faith, Faith And Freedom.

The Heart, Like The Stomach, Wants A Varied Diet.