I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as the Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is taste. With the intellect or with the conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with duty or with truth.

The rain came down upon my head - Unshelter'd. And the wind rendered me mad and deaf and blind.

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted -- Nevermore!

The best things in life make you sweaty.

You will observe that the stories told are all about money-seekers, not about money-finders.

Tell a scoundrel, three or four times a day, that he is the pink of probity, and you make him at least the perfection of "respectability" in good earnest. On the other hand, accuse an honorable man, too petinaciously, of being a villain, and you fill him with a perverse ambition to show you that you are not altogether in the wrong.

I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.