Time Is The School In

Is It Not Clear That A Reviewer's Psyche, Like An Iceberg, Is Seven-eighths Beneath The Surface?

Time Is The School In Which We Learn, Time Is The Fire In Which We Burn.

At The Moment I'm So Exhausted That I Feel Like Cutting My Throat, So The Next News Masy Well Be That I Am Across The River And Under The Trees: What Is The Meaning And Purpose Of Life? Death.

What Was The Freedom To Which The Adult Human Being Rose In The Morning, If Each Act Was Held Back Or Inspired By The Overpowering Ghost Of A Little Child?

How Could I Think The Brief Years Were Enough To Prove The Reality Of Endless Love?