Blessed Are The Dead That The Rain

Your Life On Earth Will Be, As Always, The Interval Between Two Significant Glances In A Mundane Mirror.

Then A Strange Thing Happened. She Turned To Him And Smiled, And As He Saw Her Smile Every Rag Of Anger And Hurt Vanity Dropped From Him — As Though His Very Moods Were But The Outer Ripples Of Her Own, As Though Emotion Rose No Longer In His Breast Unless She Saw Fit To Pull An Omnipotent Controlling Thread.

An Unread Book Is Just A Block Of Paper.

For Awhile After You Quit Keats All Other Poetry Seems To Be Only Whistling Or Humming.

The Purpose Of A Work Of Fiction Is To Appeal To The Lingering After-effects In The Reader's Mind As Differing From, Say, The Purpose Of Oratory Or Philosophy Which Respectively Leave People In A Fighting Or Thoughtful Mood.