How True It Is That Words Are

Shakespeare, I Come!

It Isn't Myself That's Important In This Transaction Apparently; The Individual Doesn't Count Much In The Situation...all Of Us Are More Or Less Pawns. We're Moved About Like Chessmen By Circumstances Over Which We Have No Control.

A Real Flame Of Love Is A Subtle Thing. It Burns As A Will-o'-the-wisp, Dancing Onward To Fairy Lands Of Delight. It Roars As A Furnace. Too Often Jealousy Is The Quality Upon Which It Feeds.

When A Girl Leaves Her Home At Eighteen, She Does One Of Two Things. Either She Falls Into Saving Hands And Becomes Better, Or She Rapidly Assumes The Cosmopolitan Standard Of Virtue And Becomes Worse

The Mystery Of Life--its Inexplicability, Beauty, Cruelty, Tenderness, Folly . . . Has Occupied The Greater Part Of My Waking Thoughts; And In Reverence Or Rage Or Irony, As The Moment Or Situation Might Dictate, I Have Pondered And Even Demanded Of Cosmic Energy To Know Why.