It Is The Business Of The Artist

Gloom And Solemnity Are Entirely Out Of Place In Even The Most Rigorous Study Of An Art Originally Intended To Make Glad The Heart Of Man.

The Art Of Letters Will Come To An End Before A.d. 2000. I Shall Survive As A Curiosity.

In Our Time, The Curse Is Monetary Illiteracy, Just As Inability To Read Plain Print Was The Curse Of Earlier Centuries.

The Man Who Fears War And Squats Opposing My Words For Stour, Hath No Blood Of Crimson But Is Fit Only To Rot In Womanish Peace

The Garden En Robe De Parade. - Samain Like A Skein Of Loose Silk Blown Against A Wall She Walks By The Railing Of A Path In Kensington Gardens, And She Is Dying Piece-meal Of A Sort Of Emotional Anaemia. And Round About There Is A Rabble Of The Filthy, Sturdy, Unkillable Infants Of The Very Poor. They Shall Inherit The Earth. In Her Is The End Of Breeding. Her Boredom Is Exquisite And Excessive. She Would Like Some One To Speak To Her, And Is Almost Afraid That I Will Commit That Indiscretion.