An Improper Mind Is A Perpetual Feast.

When They Come Downstairs From Their Ivory Towers, Idealists Are Very Apt To Walk Straight Into The Gutter.

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.

The Ladies Who Try To Keep Their Beauty Are The Ladies Who Lose It.

How Often My Soul Visits The National Gallery, And How Seldom

This Nice And Subtle Happiness Of Reading, This Joy Not Chilled By Age, This Polite And Unpunished Vice, This Selfish, Serene Life-long Intoxication.