The Poor Man Wants Many Things; The

Give Me A Condor's Quill! Give Me Vesuvius Crater For An Inkstand!

The Sea Had Jeeringly Kept His Finite Body Up, But Drowned The Infinite Of His Soul.

Dollars Damn Me; And The Malicious Devil Is Forever Grinning In Upon Me, Holding The Door Ajar. ... What I Feel Most Moved To Write, That Is Banned - It Will Not Pay. Yet, Altogether, Write The Other Way I Cannot. So The Product Is A Final Hash, And All My Books Are Botches.

The Man That Has Anything Bountifully Laughable About Him, Be Sure There Is More In That Man Than You Perhaps Think For.

The Eyes Are The Gateway To The Soul.