Write For Pleasure And Publish For Money.

Sad That Our Finest Aspiration, Our Freshest Dreams And Meditations, In Swift Succession Should Decay, Like Autumn Leaves That Rot Away.

In This, Our Age Of Infamy Man's Choice Is But To Be A Tyrant, Traitor, Prisoner: No Other Choice Has He.

Better The Illusions That Exalt Us Than Ten Thousand Truths.

'tis Time, My Friend, 'tis Time! For Rest The Heart Is Aching; Days Follow Days In Flight, And Every Day Is Taking, Fragments Of Being, While Together You And I, Make Plans To Live. Look, All Is Dust, And We Shall Die.

I Was Not Born To Amuse The Tsars.