Evil Is The Chronic Malady

Youth Is The Time When Hearts Are Large, And Stirring Wars Appeal To The Spirit Which Appeals In Turn To The Blade It Draws.

A Noble Craft, But Somehow A Most Melancholy! All Noble Things Are Touched With That.

Charity, Like Poetry, Should Be Cultivated, If Only For Its Being Graceful.

Beneath Those Stars Is A Universe Of Gliding Monsters.

I Have Written A Wicked Book, And Feel Spotless As The Lamb. Ineffable Socialities Are In Me. I Would Sit Down And Dine With You And All The Gods In Old Rome's Pantheon. It Is A Strange Feeling--no Hopefulness Is In It, No Despair. Content--that Is It; And Irresponsibility; But Without Licentious Inclination.