Nations have their ego, just like individuals.

(...) You cruel creature, little mite of a thing with a heart the size of a fullstop.

I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women.

They lived and laughed and loved and left.

The pleasures of love lasts but a fleeting but the pledges of life outlusts a lieftime.

Gentle lady, do not sing Sad songs about the end of love; Lay aside sadness and sing How love that passes is enough. Sing about the long deep sleep Of lovers that are dead, and how In the grave all love shall sleep: Love is aweary now.

The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring. Paintings of Moreau are paintings of ideas. The deepest poetry of Shelley, the words of Hamlet bring our mind into contact with the eternal wisdom; Plato's world of ideas. All the rest is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys.