A Man Who Has Never Made A

Beauty Is Ever To The Lonely Mind A Shadow Fleeting; She Is Never Plain. She Is A Visitor Who Leaves Behind The Gift Of Grief, The Souvenir Of Pain.

Truth And Beauty (perhaps Keats Was Wrong In Identifying Them: Perhaps They Have The Relation Of Wit And Humour, Or Rain And Rainbow) Are Of Interest Only To Hungry People. There Are Several Kinds Of Hunger. If Socrates, Spinoza, And Santayana Had Had Free Access To A Midnight Icebox We Would Never Have Heard Of Them. Shall I Be Ashamed Of My Little Mewing Truths?... I Ask To Be Forgiven: They Are Such Tiny Ones.

God Made Man Merely To Hear Some Praise Of What He'd Done On Those Five Days.

Being In A Hurry Seems So Fiercely Important When You Yourself Are The Hurrier And So Comically Ludicrous When It Is Someone Else.

Only The Sinner Has The Right To Preach.