There Is Much To Be Said For

No Roman Ever Was Able To Say, 'i Dined Last Night With The Borgias'.

For A Young Man, Sleep Is A Sure Solvent Of Distress. There Whirls Not For Him In The Night Any So Hideous Phantasmagoria As Will Not Become, In The Clarity Of The Next Morning, A Spruce Procession For Him To Lead. Brief The Vague Horror Of His Awakening; Memory Sweeps Back To Him, And He Sees Nothing Dreadful After All. "why Not?" Is The Sun's Bright Message To Him, And "why Not Indeed?" His Answer.

The Critic Who Justly Admires All Kinds Of Things Simultaneously Cannot Love Any One Of Them.

I Believe The Twenty-four Hour Day Has Come To Stay.

I Need No Dictionary Of Quotations To Remind Me That The Eyes Are The Windows Of The Soul.