The Test Of A Vocation Is The

There Is More Felicity On The Far Side Of Baldness Than Young Men Can Possibly Imagine.

The Ladies Who Try To Keep Their Beauty Are The Ladies Who Lose It.

We Should Nourish Our Souls On The Dew Of Poesy, And Manure Them As Well.

What Shall I Compare It To, This Fantastic Thing I Call My Mind? To A Waste-paper Basket, To A Sieve Choked With Sediment, Or To A Barrel Full Of Floating Froth And Refuse? No, What It Is Really Most Like Is A Spider's Web, Insecurely Hung On Leaves And Twigs, Quivering In Every Wind, And Sprinkled With Dewdrops And Dead Flies. And At Its Centre, Pondering Forever The Problem Of Existence, Sits Motionless The Spider-like And Uncanny Soul.

How Can They Say My Life Is Not A Success? Have I Not For More Than Sixty Years Got Enough To Eat And Escaped Being Eaten?