The Reward Of Art Is Not Fame

Peace ... Is A Morbid Condition, Due To A Surplus Of Civilians, Which War Seeks To Remedy.

He [george Orwell] Would Not Blow His Nose Without Moralising On Conditions In The Handkerchief Industry.

The River Of Truth Is Always Splitting Up Into Arms That Reunite. Islanded Between Them, The Inhabitants Argue For A Lifetime As To Which Is The Mainstream.

In My Religion, There Would Be No Exclusive Doctrine; All Would Be Love, Poetry, And Doubt.

The Past Is The Only Dead Thing That Smells Sweet.