You may have genius. The contrary is, of course, probable.

Where we love is home - home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.

Memory is a net: one that finds it full of fish when he takes it from the brook, but a dozen miles of water have run through it without sticking.

See how he throws his baited lines about,/And plays his men as anglers play their trout.

Many people die with their music still in them. Why is this so? Too often it is because they are always getting ready to live. Before they know it, time runs out.

The best servant does his work unseen.

Rough work, iconoclasm, but the only way to get at truth.