Count Art By Gold, And It Fetters

When Passion And Habit Long Lie In Company It Is Only Slowly And With Incredulity That Habit Awakens To Finds Its Companion Fled, Itself Alone.

Truth Is A Rough, Honest, Helter-skelter Terrier That None Like To See Brought Into Their Drawing Rooms.

When One Has Not Father, Or Mother, Or Brother, And All One's Friends Have Barely Bread Enough For Themselves, Life Cannot Be Very Easy, Nor Its Crusts Very Many At Any Time.

It Is Only To Those Who Have Never Lived That Death Ever Can Seems Beautiful.

It Is The North Wind That Lashes Men Into Vikings; It Is The Soft, Luscious South Wind Which Lulls Them To Lotus Dreams.