How Frightened Hypocrisy Hastens To Defend Itself.

The True Artist Can Only Labor Con Amore.

Strange To Say, The Luminous World Is The Invisible World; The Luminous World Is That Which We Do Not See. Our Eyes Of Flesh See Only Night.

There Are No Weeds, And No Worthless Men. There Are Only Bad Farmers.

Kings Are For Nations In Their Swaddling-clothes: France Has Attained Her Majority.

The Nearer I Approach The End, The Plainer I Hear Around Me The Immortal Symphonies Of The Worlds Which Invite Me. It Is Marvelous, Yet Simple.