Wine And The Sun Will Make Vinegar

Subtle Impressions For Which Words Are Quite Too Coarse A Medium.

Religion, Like All Things, Begins With Self, And Naught Is Known, Until One Knows Himself.

We Are All Of Us Imaginative In Some Form Or Other, For Images Are The Brood Of Desire.

How Could A Man Be Satisfied With A Decision Between Such Alternatives And Under Such Circumstances No More Than He Can Be Satisfied With His Hat, Which He's Chosen From Among Such Shapes As The Resources Of The Age Offer Him. . . .

I Shall Never Love Anybody. I Can't Love People. I Hate Them.' 'the Time Will Come, Dear, The Time Will Come.