This is unfortunately a world in which things find it difficult, frequently impossible, to live up to their names.

The more elaborate our means of communication, the less we communicate.

To different minds, the same world is a hell, and a heaven.

The greater part of critics are parasites, who, if nothing had been written, would find nothing to write.

Let me tell you the truth. The truth is, what is. And what should be is a fantasy, a terrible terrible lie that someone gave to the people long ago.

For tho' I know he loves me, To-night my heart is sad; His kiss was not so wonderful As all the dreams I had.

We have discovered that what a year ago seemed to be a neglected house is essentially a ruin. This is not a pleasant fact, and it is not surprising that all of…