The Fatal Futility Of Fact.

The Only Success Worth One's Powder Was Success In The Line Of One's Idiosyncrasy... What Was Talent But The Art Of Being Completely Whatever One Happened To Be?

Of Course You're Always At Liberty To Judge The Critic. Judge People As Critics, However, And You'll Condemn Them All!

One Can't Judge Till One's Forty; Before That We're Too Eager, Too Hard, Too Cruel, And In Addition Much Too Ignorant.

One Is Oneself A Fine Consequence.

Art Derives A Considerable Part Of Its Beneficial Exercise From Flying In The Face Of Presumptions.