When I write after dark the shades of evening scatter their purple through my prose.
If our elaborate and dominating bodies are given us to be denied at every turn, if our nature is always wrong and wicked, how ineffectual we are; like fishes not meant to swim.
No one can achieve Serenity until the glare of passion is past the meridian.
Promise is the capacity for letting people down.
For what is liberty but the unhampered translation of will into act?
The true work of art is the one which the seventh wave of genius throws up the beach where the undertow of time cannot drag it back.