An Echo Of Music, A Face In

What Shall I Compare It To, This Fantastic Thing I Call My Mind? To A Waste-paper Basket, To A Sieve Choked With Sediment, Or To A Barrel Full Of Floating Froth And Refuse? No, What It Is Really Most Like Is A Spider's Web, Insecurely Hung On Leaves And Twigs, Quivering In Every Wind, And Sprinkled With Dewdrops And Dead Flies. And At Its Centre, Pondering Forever The Problem Of Existence, Sits Motionless The Spider-like And Uncanny Soul.

If You Are Losing Your Leisure, Look Out! You Are Losing Your Soul.

Fine Writers Should Split Hairs Together, And Sit Side By Side, Like Friendly Apes, To Pick The Fleas From Each Others Fur.

The Notion Of Making Money By Popular Work, And Then Retiring To Do Good Work, Is The Most Familiar Of All The Devil's Traps For Artists.

How Many Of Our Daydreams Would Darken Into Nightmares If There Seemed Any Danger Of Their Coming True!