No literature is complete until the language it was written in is dead.
The world loves a spice of wickedness.
Like black hulks the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass.
How like they are to human things!
Like a French poem is life; being only perfect in structure when with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are.
If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!