All My Heart Is Yours,

Life Is So Constructed, That The Event Does Not, Cannot, Will Not, Match The Expectation.

Is Not The Real Experience Of Each Individual Very Limited? And, If A Writer Dwells Upon That Solely Or Principally, Is He Not In Danger Of Repeating Himself, And Also Of Becoming An Egotist? Then, Too, Imagination Is A Strong, Restless Faculty, Which Claims To Be Heard And Exercised: Are We To Be Quite Deaf To Her Cry, And Insensate To Her Struggles? When She Shows Us Bright Pictures, Are We Never To Look At Them, And Try To Reproduce Them? And When She Is Eloquent, And Speaks Rapidly And Urgently In Our Ear, Are We Not To Write To Her Dictation?

If You Don't Love Another Living Soul, Then You'll Never Be Disappointed.

Everyone Else Is Just Cocktails.

I Have No Wish To Talk Nonsense." "if You Did, It Would Be In Such A Grave, Quiet Manner, I Should Mistake It For Sense.