As The Cosmos Are In Place, So

The Great American Novel Has Not Only Already Been Written, It Has Already Been Rejected.

She Could Not Admit But That He Had Remarkable Qualities, Sometimes She Thought That There Was Even In Him A Strange And Unattractive Greatness; It Was Curious Then That She Could Not Love Him, But Loved Still A Man Whose Worthlessness Was Now So Clear To Her.

Impropriety Is The Soul Of Wit.

Art, Unless It Leads To Right Action, Is No More Than The Opium Of An Intelligentsia.

It Was Such A Beautiful Day I Decided To Stay In Bed.