But It Is Not Reason

Cover That Bosom That I Must Not See: Souls Are Wounded By Such Things.

You Are A Fool In Four Letters, My Son.

What! Would You Make No Distinction Between Hypocrisy And Devotion? Would You Give Them The Same Names, And Respect The Mask As You Do The Face? Would You Equate Artifice And Sincerity? Confound Appearance With Truth? Regard The Phantom As The Very Person? Value Counterfeit As Cash?

The Maturing Process Of Becoming A Writer Is Akin To That Of A Harlot. First You Do It For Love, Then For A Few Friends, And Finally Only For Money.

Beauty Without Intelligence Is Like A Hook Without Bait.