Pleasure Has No Logic; It Never Treads

The Greatness Of An Artist Or A Writer Does Not Depend On What He Has In Common With Other Artists And Writers, But On What He Has Peculiar To Himself.

Thoughts Must Come Naturally, Like Wild-flowers; They Cannot Be Forced In A Hot-bed, Even Although Aided By The Leaf-mould Of Your Past.

The Truly Great Rest In The Knowledge Of Their Own Deserts, Nor Seek The Conformation Of The World.

In The Entire Circle Of The Year There Are No Days So Delightful As Those Of A Fine October.

Style, After All, Rather Than Thought, Is The Immortal Thing In Literature.