We Amuse Ourselves Painting Our Prison-walls With

Few Men Have Imagination Enough For Reality.

I Bid The Chords Sweet Music Make, And All Must Follow In My Wake.

A Man May Twist As He Pleases, And Do What He Pleases, But He Inevitably Comes Back To The Track To Which Nature Has Destined Him.

In Art, To Express The Infinite One Should Suggest Infinitely More Than Is Expressed.

Whatever Nature Undertakes, She Can Only Accomplish It In A Sequence. She Never Makes A Leap.