As Repressed Sadists Are Supposed To Become

When I Write After Dark The Shades Of Evening Scatter Their Purple Through My Prose.

No Education Is Worth Having That Does Not Teach The Lesson Of Concentration On A Task, However Unattractive. These Lessons, If Not Learnt Early, Will Be Learnt, If At All, With Pain And Grief In Later Life.

The River Of Truth Is Always Splitting Up Into Arms That Reunite. Islanded Between Them, The Inhabitants Argue For A Lifetime As To Which Is The Mainstream.

Idleness Is Only A Coarse Name For My Infinite Capacity For Living In The Present.

The Artist Is A Member Of The Leisured Classes Who Cannot Pay For His Leisure.