What Joy Can The Years

What Things There Are To Write, If One Could Only Write Them! My Mind Is Full Of Gleaming Thought; Gay Moods And Mysterious, Moth-like Meditations Hover In My Imagination, Fanning Their Painted Wings. But Always The Rarest, Those Streaked With Azure And The Deepest Crimson, Flutter Away Beyond My Reach.

What Pursuit Is More Elegant Than That Of Collecting The Ignominies Of Our Nature And Transfixing Them For Show, Each On The Bright Pin Of A Polished Phrase?

The Old Know What They Want; The Young Are Sad And Bewildered.

The Truth Is That The Phenomena Of Artistic Production Are Still So Obscure, So Baffling, We Are Still So Far From An Accurate Scientific And Psychological Knowledge Of Their Genesis Or Meaning, That We Are Forced To Accept Them As Empirical Facts; And Empirical And Non-explanatory Names Are The Names That Suit Them Best.

It Is A Matter Of Life And Death For Married People To Interrupt Each Others Stories; For It They Did Not, They Would Burst.