Bouillabaisse Is Only Good Because Cooked By

To Find A Friend One Must Close One Eye. To Keep Him...two.

I Can Find No Room In My Cosmos For A Deity Save As A Waste Product Of Human Weakness, The Excrement Of The Imagination.

I Wish The English Still Possessed A Shred Of The Old Sense Of Humour Which Puritanism, And Dyspepsia, And Newspaper Reading, And Tea-drinking Have Nearly Extinguished.

There Is In Us A Lyric Germ Or Nucleus Which Deserves Respect; It Bids A Man To Ponder Or Create; And In This Dim Corner Of Himself He Can Take Refuge And Find Consolations Which The Society Of His Fellow Creatures Does Not Provide.

Learn To Foster An Ardent Imagination; So Shall You Descry Beauty Which Others Passed Unheeded.