And He Beholds The Moon;

In Her Enthusiasms She Had Always Looked For Something Tangible: She Had Always Loved Church For Its Flowers, Music For Its Romantic Words, Literature For Its Power To Stir The Passions And She Rebelled Before The Mysteries Of Faith Just As She Grew Ever More Restive Under Discipline, Which Was Antipathetic To Her Nature.

And He Beholds The Moon; Like A Rounded Fragment Of Ice Filled With Motionless Light.

But The Disparaging Of Those We Love Always Alienates Us From Them To Some Extent. We Must Not Touch Our Idols; The Gilt Comes Off In Our Hands.

Nothing Is More Humiliating Than To See Idiots Succeed In Enterprises We Have Failed In.

There Is Not A Particle Of Life Which Does Not Bear Poetry Within It