To Men Who Only Aim

It Had Already Occurred To Him That Books Were Stuff, And That Life Was Stupid.

The Human Heart Finds Nowhere Shelter But In Human Kind.

Tis A Petty Kind Of Fame At Best, That Comes Of Making Violins; And Saves No Masses, Either. Thou Wilt Go To Purgatory None The Less.

Who Has Not Felt The Beauty Of A Woman's Arm? The Unspeakable Suggestions Of Tenderness That Lie In The Dimpled Elbow, And All The Varied Gently-lessening Curves, Down To The Delicate Wrist, With Its Tiniest, Almost Imperceptible Nicks In The Firm Softness.

Truth Has Rough Flavours If We Bite It Through.