Theodore Dreiser Should Ought To Write Nicer.

I Sacrifice To The God Of Beauty — The Impulse To Beauty In Nature. Here Are Flowers. Here Is Wine Spilled On The Floor. I Will Burn Incense & Myrhh. I Will Kneel & Strike My Breast & Touch The Dust With My Forehead. I Will I Will! Only Do Not Forsake Me, Oh God Of Beauty.

Your Writer, Your Scientist, Your Chief Official, All Have Lost The Power To Revive The Early Illusion Concerning Fame And High Place. Their Beauty And Delight Is Like The Mirage In The Heavens, Only Plain To The Eye Outside; Within Is Nothing.

I Believe In The Compelling Power Of Love. I Do Not Understand It. I Believe It To Be The Most Fragrant Blossom Of All This Thorny Existence.

I Have Seen Youths Bright Eyed And Fair Groping After Bubbles In Rapture, And Conceiving Them Diamonds And The Glitter Of Fine Jewels, Until Their Hand Closed Over A Something That Was Not To Be Felt Nor Longer Seen, Mere Colored Air.

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