The Artist Is The Child In The

Perfumes Are The Feelings Of Flowers, And As The Human Heart, Imagining Itself Alone And Unwatched, Feels Most Deeply In The Night-time, So Seems It As If The Flowers, In Musing Modesty, Await The Mantling Eventide Ere They Give Themselves Up Wholly To Feeling...

It Is An Ancient Story Yet Is It Ever New.

Ordinarily He Was Insane, But He Had Lucid Moments When He Was Merely Stupid

A Brainiac Notices Everything, An Ignoramus Comments About Everything.

You Cannot Feed The Hungry On Statistics.