No Lady Is Ever A Gentleman.

I Fear You And, Yes, I Love You: And Yet I Cannot Believe. Why Could You Not Let Me Believe, Where So Many Believed? Or Else, Why Could You Not Let Me Deride, As The Remainder Derided So Noisily? O God, Why Could You Not Let Me Have Faith? For You Gave Me No Faith In Anything, Not Even In Nothingness. It Was Not Fair.

What Am I That I Am Called Upon To Have Prejudices Concerning The Universe?

Literature Is A Vast Bazaar Where Customers Come To Purchase Everything Except Mirrors.

For All Men Have But A Little While To Live And None Knows His Fate Thereafter. So That A Man Possesses Nothing Certainly Save A Brief Loan Of His Body: And Yet The Body Of Man Is Capable Of Much Curious Pleasure.

What Really Matters Is That There Is So Much Faith And Love And Kindliness Which We Can Share With And Provoke In Others, And That By Cleanly, Simple, Generous Living We Approach Perfection In The Highest And Most Lovely Of All Arts. . . . But You, I Think, Have Always Comprehended This.