Morality, like art, means drawing a line someplace.
Spontaneity is a meticulously prepared art
Love is not fashionable anymore; the poets have killed it.
He hasn't an enemy in the world, and none of his friend like him.
The old-fashioned respect for the young is fast dying out.
But what of life whose bitter hungry sea Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night Covers the days which never more return? Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn We lose too soon, and only find delight In withered husks of some dead memory.