The Artist Is A Member Of The

No One Over Thirty-five Is Worth Meeting Who Has Not Something To Teach Us, Something More Than We Could Learn For Ourselves, From A Book.

When I Write After Dark The Shades Of Evening Scatter Their Purple Through My Prose.

The Reward Of Art Is Not Fame Or Success But Intoxication.

Except For Poverty, Incompatibility, Opposition Of Parents, Absence Of Love On One Side And Of Desire To Marry On Both, Nothing Stands In The Way Of Our Happy Union.

If Our Elaborate And Dominating Bodies Are Given Us To Be Denied At Every Turn, If Our Nature Is Always Wrong And Wicked, How Ineffectual We Are; Like Fishes Not Meant To Swim.