Small Talk Comes From Small Bones

The Sum Of Human Wisdom Is Not Contained In Any One Language, And No Single Language Is Capable Of Expressing All Forms And Degrees Of Human Comprehension.

The Primary Pigment Of Poetry Is The Image.

I Once Saw A Small Child Go To An Electric Light Switch As Say, Mamma, Can I Open The Light? She Was Using The Age-old Language Of Exploration, The Language Of Art.

Humanity Is The Rich Effluvium, It Is The Waste And The Manure And The Soil, And From It Grows The Tree Of The Arts.

Come, Let Us Pity Those Who Are Better Off Than We Are. Come, My Friend, And Remember That The Rich Have Butlers And No Friends, And We Have Friends And No Butlers. (excerpt From 'the Garrett')