People Have A Right To Be Shocked;

The Ladies Who Try To Keep Their Beauty Are The Ladies Who Lose It.

What Shall I Compare It To, This Fantastic Thing I Call My Mind? To A Waste-paper Basket, To A Sieve Choked With Sediment, Or To A Barrel Full Of Floating Froth And Refuse? No, What It Is Really Most Like Is A Spider's Web, Insecurely Hung On Leaves And Twigs, Quivering In Every Wind, And Sprinkled With Dewdrops And Dead Flies. And At Its Centre, Pondering Forever The Problem Of Existence, Sits Motionless The Spider-like And Uncanny Soul.

If We Shake Hands With Icy Fingers, It Is Because We Have Burnt Them So Horribly Before.

Happiness Is A Wine Of The Rarest Vintage, And Seems Insipid To A Vulgar Taste.

If You Are Losing Your Leisure, Look Out! You Are Losing Your Soul.