A Best-seller Is The Gilded Tomb Of

Those Who Set Out To Serve Both God And Mammon Soon Discover That There Isn't A God.

But Why Wasn't I Born, Alas, In An Age Of Adjectives; Why Can One No Longer Write Of Silver-shedding Tears And Moon-tailed Peacocks, Of Eloquent Death, Of The Negro And Star-enameled Night?

The World Is Not Unkind, And Reprobates Are Worse Than Their Reputations.

A Friend Who Loved Perfection Would Be The Perfect Friend, Did Not That Love Shut His Door On Me.

We Grow With Years More Fragile In Body, But Morally Stutter, And Can Throw Off The Chill Of A Bad Conscience Almost At Once.