If It's To Be, It's Up To

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

What Things There Are To Write, If One Could Only Write Them! My Mind Is Full Of Gleaming Thought; Gay Moods And Mysterious, Moth-like Meditations Hover In My Imagination, Fanning Their Painted Wings. But Always The Rarest, Those Streaked With Azure And The Deepest Crimson, Flutter Away Beyond My Reach.

What Joy Can The Years Bring Half So Sweet As The Unhappiness They've Taken Away?

I Can't Forgive My Friends For Dying; I Don't Find These Vanishing Acts Of Theirs At All Amusing.

The Vitality Of A New Movement In Art Must Be Gauged By The Fury It Arouses.