Shaw's Works Make Me Admire The Magnificent

The Incompatibility Of Aquacity With The Erratic Originality Of Genius.

The Artist, Like The God Of The Creation, Remains Within Or Behind Or Beyond Or Above His Handiwork, Invisible, Refined Out Of Existence, Indifferent, Paring His Fingernails.

Desire's Wind Blasts The Thorntree But After It Becomes From A Bramblebush To Be A Rose Upon The Rood Of Time.

I Fear Those Big Words, Stephen Said, Which Make Us So Unhappy.

To Discover The Mode Of Life Or Of Art Whereby My Spirit Could Express Itself In Unfettered Freedom.