Travelling Is Like A Novel: It's What

Vanity Is The Most Despotic And Iniquitous Of Masters, And I Can Never Be The Slave Of My Own Vices.

Art Speaks Only To The Mind, Whereas Nature Speaks To All The Faculties.

Life Is A Slate Where All Our Sins Are Written; From Time To Time We Rub The Sponge Of Repentance Over It So We Can Begin Sinning Again.

The Masses Are Still Ungrateful Or Ignorant. They Prefer Murder, Poisonings, And Crimes Generally To A Literature Possessed Of Style And Feeling.

The Mind Has No Sex.