Love Joins And Then Divides. How Else

I Am Just A Refugee From The Long Slow Toothache Of English Life. It Is Terrible To Love Life So Much You Can Hardly Breathe!

Journeys, Like Artists, Are Born And Not Made. A Thousand Differing Circumstances Contribute To Them, Few Of Them Willed Or Determined By The Will-whatever We May Think.

It Is Not Love That Is Blind, But Jealousy.

After All The Work Of The Philosophers On His Soul And The Doctors On His Body, What Can We Really Say We Know About A Man? That He Is, When All Is Said And Done, Just A Passage For Liquids And Solids, A Pipe Of Flesh.

Life, The Raw Material, Is Only Lived In Potentia Until The Artist Deploys It In His Work.