How Dismal Is Progress Without Publicity.

Morality And Ethics Are Nothing But Footballs, Wherewith People, Strong People Play To Win Points.

Your Writer, Your Scientist, Your Chief Official, All Have Lost The Power To Revive The Early Illusion Concerning Fame And High Place. Their Beauty And Delight Is Like The Mirage In The Heavens, Only Plain To The Eye Outside; Within Is Nothing.

Art Is The Stored Honey Of The Human Soul, Gathered On Wings Of Misery And Travail.

A Real Flame Of Love Is A Subtle Thing. It Burns As A Will-o'-the-wisp, Dancing Onward To Fairy Lands Of Delight. It Roars As A Furnace. Too Often Jealousy Is The Quality Upon Which It Feeds.

All Forms Of Dogmatic Religion Should Go. The World Did Without Them In The Past And Can Do So Again.