What Is The Special Privilege Of Youth?

My Poems Are Hymns Of Praise To The Glory Of Life.

There Is No Truth. Only Points Of View.

I Am One Of Those Unhappy Persons Who Inspire Bores To The Greatest Flights Of Art.

Winter Is The Time For Comfort, For Good Food And Warmth, For The Touch Of A Friendly Hand And For A Talk Beside The Fire: It Is The Time For Home. It Is No Season In Which To Wander The World As If One Were The Wind Blowing Aimlessly Along The Streets Without A Place To Rest, Without Food, And Without Time Meaning Anything To One, Just As Time Means Nothing To The Wind.

The Child And The Great Artist -- These Alone Receive The Sensation Fresh As It Was At The Beginning Of The World.