Youth Condemns; Maturity Condones

I Know That A Creed Is The Shell Of A Lie.

Oh! To Be A Butterfly Still, Upon A Flower, Winking With Its Painted Wings, Happy In The Hour.

Happiness, To Some, Elation; Is, To Others, Mere Stagnation.

Art Is Like Politics. Any Theory Carried Too Far Ends In Sterility, And Freshness Is Only Gained By Following Some Other Line.

Even Pain Pricks To Livelier Living.