The Habit Of Doing One's

Life Swarms With Innocent Monsters.

Love Is The Natural Occupation Of The Man Of Leisure.

The World Progresses Only Through Misunderstanding.

...and The Lamp Having At Last Resigned Itself To Death. There Was Nothing Now But Firelight In The Room, And Every Time A Flame Uttered A Gasp For Breath It Flushed Her Amber Skin With The Blood Of Its Bloom.

Romanticism Is Precisely Situated Neither In Choice Of Subject, Nor Exact Truth, But In The Way Of Feeling.