If A Writer Wrote Merely

He Had, They Said, Tasted In Succession All The Apples Of The Tree Of Knowledge, And, Whether From Hunger Or Disgust, Had Ended By Tasting The Forbidden Fruit.

When The Heart Is Dry The Eye Is Dry.

God Secludes Himself; But The Thinker Listens At The Door.

Symmetry Is Tedious, And Tedium Is The Very Basis Of Mourning. Despair Yawns.

It Is An Unpleasant Thing To Go To Bed Without Supper, It Is A Still Less Pleasant Thing Not To Sup And Not To Know Where One Is To Sleep.