Truth Is A Flower In Whose Neighbourhood

Railway Termini Are Our Gates To The Glorious And The Unknown

They Had Nothing In Common But The English Language.

What Is Wonderful About Great Literature Is That It Transforms The Man Who Reads It Towards The Condition Of The Man Who Wrote.

Pity Wraps The Student Of The Past In An Ambrosial Cloud, And Washes His Limbs With Eternal Youth.

How Few Writers Can Prostitute All Their Powers!