What am I that I am called upon to have prejudices concerning the universe?

The desire to write perfectly of beautiful happenings is, as the saying runs, old as the hills — and as immortal.

Why is the King of Hearts the only one that hasn't a moustache?

I have followed after the truth, across this windy planet upon which every person is nourished by one or another lie.

As it is, plain reasoning assures me I am not indispensable to the universe: but with this reasoning, somehow, does not travel my belief.

I ask of literature precisely those things of which I feel the lack in my own life.

Sad hours and glad hours, and all hours, pass over; One thing unshaken stays: Life, that hath Death for spouse, hath Chance for lover; Whereby decays, Each thing save one thing: mid this strife diurnal, Of hourly change begot, Love that is God-born, bides as God eternal, And changes not; Nor means a tinseled dream pursuing lovers, Find altered by-and-bye, When, with possession, time anon discovers, Trapped dreams must die, - For he that visions God, of mankind gathers, One manlike trait alone, And reverently imputes to Him a father's love for his son.