Nothing Can Happen Nowhere. The Locale Of

Ghosts Seem Harder To Please Than We Are; It Is As Though They Haunted For Haunting’s Sake -- Much As We Relive, Brood, And Smoulder Over Our Pasts.

Nothing Is More Restful Than Conformity.

Ghosts, We Hope, May Be Always With Us - That Is, Never Too Far Out Of The Reach Of Fancy. On The Whole, It Would Seem They Adapt Themselves Well, Perhaps Better Than We Do, To Changing World Conditions - They Enlarge Their Domain, Shift Their Hold On Our Nerves, And, Dispossessed Of One Habitat, Set Up House In Another. The Universal Battiness Of Our Century Looks Like Providing Them With A Propitious Climate.

We Desert Those Who Desert Us; We Cannot Afford To Suffer; We Must Live How We Can.

Illusions Are Art, For The Feeling Person, And It Is By Art That We Live, If We Do.