Everything Is Bicycle.

Truth ... Is A Breath, A Wind, A Shadow, A Phantom; Long Have I Pursued It, But Never Have I Touched The Hem Of Its Garment.

And It Was As If Fate Had Betrayed The Soldier. In Death It Exposed To His Enemies That Poverty Which In Life He Had Perhaps Concealed From His Friends.

It Was Surprising That Nature Had Gone Tranquilly On With Her Golden Process In The Midst Of So Much Devilment.

Half Of Tradition Is A Lie.

In The Swirling Rain That Came At Dusk The Broad Avenue Glistened With That Deep Bluish Tint Which Is So Widely Condemned When It Is Put Into Pictures.