If We Shake Hands With Icy Fingers,

The Great Art Of Writing Is The Art Of Making People Real To Themselves With Words.

An Echo Of Music, A Face In The Street, The Wafer Of The New Moon, A Wanton Thought - Only In The Iridescence Of Things The Vagabond Soul Is Happy.

What Shall I Compare It To, This Fantastic Thing I Call My Mind? To A Waste-paper Basket, To A Sieve Choked With Sediment, Or To A Barrel Full Of Floating Froth And Refuse? No, What It Is Really Most Like Is A Spider's Web, Insecurely Hung On Leaves And Twigs, Quivering In Every Wind, And Sprinkled With Dewdrops And Dead Flies. And At Its Centre, Pondering Forever The Problem Of Existence, Sits Motionless The Spider-like And Uncanny Soul.

When Elderly Invalids Meet With Fellow-victims Of Their Own Ailments, Then At Last Real Conversation Begins, And Life Is Delicious.

Those Who Set Out To Serve Both God And Mammon Soon Discover That There Isn't A God.