A Novel Is An Impression, Not An

Men Thin Away To Insignificance And Oblivion Quite As Often By Not Making The Most Of Good Spirits When They Have Them As By Lacking Good Spirits When They Are Indispensable.

Do Not Do An Immoral Thing For Moral Reasons.

I Am The Family Face; Flesh Perishes, I Live On, Projecting Trait And Trace Through Time To Times Anon, And Leaping From Place To Place Over Oblivion.

Why It Was That Upon This Beautiful Feminine Tissue, Sensitive As Gossamer, And Practically Blank As Snow As Yet, There Should Have Been Traced Such A Coarse Pattern As It Was Doomed To Receive; Why So Often The Coarse Appropriates The Finer Thus, The Wrong Man The Woman, The Wrong Women The Man, Many Years Of Analytical Philosophy Have Failed To Explain To Our Sense Of Order

Time Changes Everything Except Something Within Us Which Is Always Surprised By Change.