Life Is Made For The

Art Is The Stored Honey Of The Human Soul, Gathered On Wings Of Misery And Travail.

The Mystery Of Life--its Inexplicability, Beauty, Cruelty, Tenderness, Folly . . . Has Occupied The Greater Part Of My Waking Thoughts; And In Reverence Or Rage Or Irony, As The Moment Or Situation Might Dictate, I Have Pondered And Even Demanded Of Cosmic Energy To Know Why.

Shakespeare, I Come!

How True It Is That Words Are But The Vague Shadows Of The Volumes We Mean.

Assure A Man That He Has A Soul And Then Frighten Him With Old Wives' Tales As To What Is To Become Of Him Afterward, And You Have Hooked A Fish, A Mental Slave.