No Lady Is Ever A

I Have Followed After The Truth, Across This Windy Planet Upon Which Every Person Is Nourished By One Or Another Lie.

In What Else, Pray, Does Man Differ From The Other Animals Except In That He Is Used By Words?

If We Assiduously Cultivate Our Powers Of Exaggeration, Perhaps We, Too, Shall Obtain The Paradise Of Liars. And There Raphael Shall Paint For Us Scores And Scores Of His Manifestly Impossible Pictures... And Shakespeare Will Lie To Us Of Fabulous Islands Far Past 'the Still-vex'd Bermoothes,' And Bring Us Fresh Tales From The Coast Of Bohemia. For No One Will Speak The Truth There, And We Shall All Be Perfectly Happy.

I Do That Which I Do In Every Place. Here Also, At The Gateway Of That Garden Into Which Time Has Not Entered, I Fight With Time My Ever-losing Battle, Because To Do That Diverts Me.

For All Men Have But A Little While To Live And None Knows His Fate Thereafter. So That A Man Possesses Nothing Certainly Save A Brief Loan Of His Body: And Yet The Body Of Man Is Capable Of Much Curious Pleasure.