We Work Not Only To

To Be Understood A Writer Has To Explain Almost Everything.

It Is Only Possible To Speak In The Language And In The Spirit Of One's Time.

Give Me Some Mud, And I Will Paint You A Woman's Flesh.

Can Any Man Say With Certainty That He Was Happy At A Particular Moment Of Time Which He Remembers As Being Delightful? Remembering It Certainly Makes Him Happy, Because He Realizes How Happy He Could Have Been, But At The Actual Moment When The Alleged Happiness Was Occurring, Did He Really Feel Happy? He Was Like A Man Owning A Piece Of Ground In Which, Unknown To Himself, A Treasure Lay Buried.

I Live In Company With A Body, A Silent Companion, Exacting And Eternal. He It Is Who Notes That Individuality Which Is The Seal Of The Weakness Of Our Race. My Soul Has Wings, But The Brutal Jailer Is Strict.