Souls Are Made Of Dawn-stuff And Starshine.

Our Admiration Is So Given To Dead Martyrs That We Have Little Time For Living Heroes.

The Artist Needs No Religion Beyond His Work.

Religions Are Many And Diverse, But Reason And Goodness Are One.

Literature Is The Noblest Of All The Arts. Music Dies On The Air, Or At Best Exists Only As A Memory; Oratory Ceases With The Effort; The Painter's Colors Fade And The Canvas Rots; The Marble Is Dragged From Its Pedestal And Is Broken Into Fragments.

I Rather Like The World. The Flesh Is Pleasing And The Devil Does Not Trouble Me.