Trapped Dreams Must Die.

Life Is Very Marvelous... And To The Wonders Of The Earth There Is No End Appointed.

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

The Desire To Write Perfectly Of Beautiful Happenings Is, As The Saying Runs, Old As The Hills — And As Immortal.

I Was Born, I Think, With The Desire To Make Beautiful Books — Brave Books That Would Preserve The Glories Of The Dream Untarnished, And Would Re-create Them For Battered People, And Re-awaken Joy And Magnanimity.

I Fight Against The Gluttony Of Time With So Many Very Amusing Weapons With Gestures And With Three Attitudes And With Charming Phrases; With Tears And With Tinsel, And With Sugar-coated Pills, And With Platitudes Slightly Regilded. Yes, And I Fight Him Also With Little Mirrors Wherein Gleam Confusedly The Corruptions Of Lust, And Ruddy Loyalty, And A Bit Of Moonshine, And The Pure Diamond Of The Heart's Desire, And The Opal Cloudings Of Human Compromise: But, Above All, I Fight That Ravening Dotard With The Strength Of My Own Folly.