Theodore Dreiser Should Ought To Write Nicer.

Art Is The Stored Honey Of The Human Soul, Gathered On Wings Of Misery And Travail.

It Isn't Myself That's Important In This Transaction Apparently; The Individual Doesn't Count Much In The Situation...all Of Us Are More Or Less Pawns. We're Moved About Like Chessmen By Circumstances Over Which We Have No Control.

I Acknowledge The Furies. I Believe In Them. I Have Heard The Disastrous Beating Of Their Wings.

The Strong Man Wants To Be Allowed To Do; The Little Man Wants To Stop Him.

Remember, Love Is All A Woman Has To Give, But It Is The Only Thing Which God Permits Us To Carry Beyond The Grave.