The Fatal Futility Of Fact.

You Seemed To Me To Be Soaring Far Up In The Blue - To Be Sailing In The Bright Light, Over The Heads Of Men. Suddenly Some One Tosses Up A Faded Rosebud - A Missile That Should Never Have Reached You - And Down You Drop To The Ground.

Things Are Always Different From What They Might Be.

One Doesn't Defend One's God: One's God Is In Himself A Defense.

In Museums And Palaces We Are Alternate Radicals And Conservatives.

Nothing, Of Course, Will Ever Take The Place Of The Good Old Fashion Of 'liking' A Work Of Art Or Not Liking It; The More Improved Criticism Will Not Abolish That Primitive, That Ultimate, Test.