But all they are all there scraping along to sneeze out a likelihood that will solve and salve life’s robulous rebus, hopping round his middle like kippers on a griddle.
Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.
Ask no questions and you’ll hear no lies.
Art has to reveal to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.
All moanday, tearsday, wailsday, thumpsday, frightday, shatterday till the fear of the Law.
A woman loses a charm with every pin she takes out.
A priest of the eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life.[A writer is]
A nation is the same people living in the same place.
A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.
A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what’s cheese? Corpse of milk.
‘Tis as human a little story as paper could well carry.
