All Art Is Bad, But Modern Art

I Had Come At Last And My Heart Was Beating Again Strongly To A Heart That Could Not Know Despair Because It Forgot Itself In The Duty Of Its Love.

To Forgive Is Wisdom, To Forget Is Genius.

Where Can One Find A Profounder Desolation Than In The Poor Child Who Has Lost Its Mother?

The Concept, The Label, Is Perpetually Hiding From Us All The Nature Of The Real.

Of All Things I Find Most Unbearable Is The Injustice Of One Generation To Another.