People Say That Life Is The Thing,

Eat With The Rich, But Go To The Play With The Poor, Who Are Capable Of Joy.

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.

The Mere Process Of Growing Old Together Will Make The Slightest Acquaintance Seem A Bosom Friend.

The Indefatigable Pursuit Of An Unattainable Perfection -even Though Nothing More Than The Pounding Of An Old Piano -is What Alone Gives A Meaning To Our Life On This Unavailing Star.

Every Author, However Modest, Keeps A Most Outrageous Vanity Chained Like A Madman In The Padded Cell Of His Breast.