A Slight Touch Of Friendly

What I Like In A Good Author Is Not What He Says But What He Whispers.

Uncultivated Minds Are Not Full Of Wild Flowers, Like Uncultivated Fields. Villainous Weeds Grow In Them And They Are The Haunt Of Toads.

How Often My Soul Visits The National Gallery, And How Seldom

What Things There Are To Write, If One Could Only Write Them! My Mind Is Full Of Gleaming Thought; Gay Moods And Mysterious, Moth-like Meditations Hover In My Imagination, Fanning Their Painted Wings. But Always The Rarest, Those Streaked With Azure And The Deepest Crimson, Flutter Away Beyond My Reach.

People Say That Life Is The Thing, But I Prefer Reading.