Ale, Not Beer, In A Pewter Mug

Those Men, Those Of Former Times, Had Soul And Eyes That In No Way Resemble Ours, And In Their Veins, Along With Their Blood, Flowed Something That Has Disappeared: Love And Admiration For The Beautiful.

The Public Is Composed Of Numerous Groups Whose Cry To Us Writers Is: 'comfort Me.' 'amuse Me.' 'touch My Sympathies.' 'make Me Sad.' 'make Me Dream.' 'make Me Laugh.' 'make Me Shiver.' 'make Me Weep.' 'make Me Think.'

We Breathe Love As We Breathe Air; We Hold It In Ourselves As We Hold Our Thoughts. Nothing More Exists For Us.

It Is The Lives We Encounter That Make Life Worth Living.

Patriotism Is A Kind Of Religion; It Is The Egg From Which Wars Are Hatched.