Dreams Are But Interludes, Which

All Authors To Their Own Defects Are Blind.

The Fates But Only Spin The Coarser Clue; The Finest Of The Wool Is Left For You.

Fiction Is Of The Essence Of Poetry As Well As Of Painting; There Is A Resemblance In One Of Human Bodies, Things, And Actions Which Are Not Real, And In The Other Of A True Story By Fiction.

Truth Is Never To Be Expected From Authors Whose Understanding Is Warped With Enthusiasm.

The Sooner You Treat Your Son As A Man, The Sooner He Will Be One.