Innocent And Infinite Are The Pleasures Of

The House Of Fiction Has In Short Not One Window, But A Million, ... But They Are, Singly, As Nothing Without The Posted Presence Of The Watcher.

Her Imagination Was By Habit Ridiculously Active; When The Door Was Not Open It Jumped Out The Window.

Keep Making The Movements Of Life.

There Are Moods In Which One Feels The Impulse To Enter A Tacit Protest Against Too Gross An Appetite For Pure Aesthetics In This Starving And Sinning World. One Turns Half Away, Musingly, From Certain Beautiful Useless Things.

Experience Is Never Limited, And It Is Never Complete; It Is An Immense Sensibility, A Kind Of Huge Spider-web Of The Finest Silken Threads Suspended In The Chamber Of Consciousness, And Catching Every Air-borne Particle In Its Tissue.