He Has The Manner Of A Giant

We Must Believe In Luck. For How Else Can We Explain The Success Of Those We Don't Like?

I Want The Kind Of Readers Who Remain Children At Any Cost. I Can Tell Them At A Glance: Loyalty To That First Enchantment Guards Better Than Any Cosmetic; Than Any Diet, Against The Insults Of Age. But Alas For Such Readers, Who Would Huddle Safe And Sound In The Asylum Of Their Credulous Enchantment As If In The Womb-our Enervating Century Offends Them By Its Chaos, Its Fidgets Of Light And Space, The Host Of Its Excuses For Dividing , For Rending Oneself From Others And From Oneself.

The Ear Disapproves But Tolerates Certain Musical Pieces; Transfer Them Into The Domain Of Our Nose, And We Will Be Forced To Flee.

Victor Hugo Was A Madman Who Thought He Was Victor Hugo

Poetry, Being Elegance Itself, Cannot Hope To Achieve Visibility... It Insists On Living Its Own Life.