With One Day's Reading A Man May

A People That Grows Accustomed To Sloppy Writing Is A People In The Process Of Losing Grip On Its Empire And On Itself.

The Art Of Letters Will Come To An End Before A.d. 2000. I Shall Survive As A Curiosity.

Rhythm Is Form Cut Into Time.

I Ask A Wreathwhich Will Not Crush My Head. And There Is No Hurry About It; I Shall Have, Doubtless, A Boom After My Funeral, Seeing That Long Standing Increases All Things Regardless Of Quality.

And In The Mean Time My Songs Will Travel, And The Devirginated Young Ladies Will Enjoy Them When They Have Got Over The Strangeness