There Are Two Kinds Of Poets: Those

Marriage Must Perforce Fight Against The All-devouring Monster Of Habit.

Admiration Bestowed Upon Any One But Ourselves Is Always Tedious.

Gratitude Is A Fool's Word; We Find It In The Dictionary, But It Is Not In The Heart Of Man.

Intuition, Like The Rays Of The Sun, Acts Only In An Inflexibly Straight Line; It Can Guess Right Only On Condition Of Never Diverting Its Gaze; The Freaks Of Chance Disturb It.

Coffee Falls Into The Stomach... Ideas Begin To Move, Things Remembered Arrive At Full Gallop... The Shafts Of Wit Start Up Like Sharp-shooters, Similes Arise, The Paper Is Covered With Ink...