There Are Few Sorrows In

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.

The Notion Of Making Money By Popular Work, And Then Retiring To Do Good Work, Is The Most Familiar Of All The Devil's Traps For Artists.

If It's To Be, It's Up To Me.

Growing Old Is Not A Gradual Decline, But A Series Of Drops, Full Of Sorrow, From One Ledge To Another Below It.

What Is More Mortifying Than To Feel That You Have Missed The Plum For Want Of Courage To Shake The Tree?