Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me, and drench me in loneliness.
All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
I am tired, beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little ink drops, and posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire of the great moon.
Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.
Let us be of cheer, remembering that the misfortunes hardest to bear are those which never come.