O who knows what slumbers in the background of the times?
Love can sun the realms of night.
It hinders the creative work of the mind if the intellect examines too closely the ideas as they pour in.
Ever building, building to the clouds, still building higher, and never reflecting that the poor narrow basis cannot sustain the giddy tottering column.
The iron chain and the silken cord are both equally bonds.
No doubt the artist is the child of his time; but woe to him if he is also its disciple, or even its favorite.