A Fool May Talk, But A Wise

You Talk Of Our Having An Idea; We Do Not Have An Idea. The Idea Has Us, And Martyrs Us, And Scourges Us, And Drives Us Into The Arena To Fight And Die For It, Whether We Want To Or Not.

The Real Madness Probably Is Not Another Thing That The Wisdom Itself That, Tired Of Discovering The Shames Of The World, Has Taken The Intelligent Resolution To Become Mad

Perhaps Already I Am Dead, And These Perhaps Are Phantoms Vain; - These Motley Phantasies That Pass At Night Through My Disordered Brain. Perhaps With Ancient Heathen Shapes, Old Faded Gods, This Brain Is Full; Who, For Their Most Unholy Rites, Have Chosen A Dead Poet's Skull.

The Artist Is The Child In The Popular Fable, Every One Of Whose Tears Was A Pearl.

Ask Me Not What I Have, But What I Am.