It's A Delicious Thing To

Sick, Irritated, And The Prey To A Thousand Discomforts, I Go On With My Labor Like A True Workingman, Who, With Sleeves Rolled Up, In The Sweat Of His Brow, Beats Away At His Anvil, Not Caring Whether It Rains Or Blows, Hails Or Thunders.

It Is Splendid To Be A Great Writer, To Put Men Into The Frying Pan Of Your Words And Make Them Pop Like Chestnuts.

The True Poet For Me Is A Priest. As Soon As He Dons The Cassock, He Must Leave His Family.

Everything Is There: The Love Of Art.

Travel Makes One Modest. You See What A Tiny Place You Occupy In The World.