Beginnings Are Always Messy.

Dreaming Is The Poetry Of Life, And We Must Be Forgiven If We Indulge In It A Little.

Slang Is Vigorous And Apt. Probably Most Of Our Vital Words Were Once Slang.

Looking Back On The Long-stretched-out Body Of One's Work, It Is Interesting To Mark The Endless Duel Fought Within A Man Between The Emotional And Critical Sides Of His Nature, First One, Then The Other, Getting The Upper Hand, And Too Seldom Fusing Till The Result Has The Mellowness Of Full Achievement. One Can Even Tell The Nature Of One's Readers, By Their Preference For The Work Which Reveals More Of This Side Than Of That.

Art Is The One Form Of Human Energy In The Whole World, Which Really Works For Union, And Destroys The Barriers Between Man And Man. It Is The Continual, Unconscious Replacement, However Fleeting, Of Oneself By Another; The Real Cement Of Human Life; The Everlasting Refreshment And Renewal. For, What Is Grievous, Dompting, Grim, About Our Lives Is That We Are Shut Up Within Ourselves, With An Itch To Get Outside Ourselves. And To Be Stolen Away From Ourselves By Art Is A Momentary Relaxation From That Itching, A Minute's Profound, And As It Were Secret, Enfranchisement.

Idealism Increases In Direct Proportion To One's Distance From The Problem.