An Idea Is Like A

Life, The Raw Material, Is Only Lived In Potentia Until The Artist Deploys It In His Work.

Everyone Loathes His Own Country And Countrymen If He Is Any Sort Of Artist.

Science Is The Poetry Of The Intellect And Poetry The Science Of The Heart's Affections.

Odd, Isn't It? He Really Was The Right Man For Her In A Sort Of Way; But Then As You Know, It Is A Law Of Love That The So-called 'right' Person Always Comes To Soon Or Too Late.

I Am Quite Alone. I Am Neither Happy Nor Unhappy; I Lie Suspended Like A Hair Or A Feather In The Cloudy Mixtures Of Memory.