Art Is Indeed Not The Bread But

He Thought Of The Mouldering Child, Which Laid Its Withered Thin Arms Around His Soul, As If It Were His Own, And To Whom Death Had Given As Much As A God Gave To Endymion, — Sleep, Eternal Youth, And Immortality.

There Is A Joy In Sorrow Which None But A Mourner Can Know.

Memory, Wit, Fancy, Acuteness, Cannot Grow Young Again In Old Age, But The Heart Can.

Individuality Is To Be Preserved And Respected Everywhere, As The Root Of Everything Good.

A Variety Of Nothing Is Superior To A Monotony Of Something.