Every one of course represents the spirit of his age, but there is an eternal aspect of the Spirit of every age which may be caught. To recreate the past from the mutilated fragments of the present is the task of the Historian.

The true artist is known by what he annexes, and he annexes everything.

Requiescat Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone She is at rest. Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life’s buried here, Heap earth upon it.

I must say... that I ruined myself: and that nobody, great or small, can be ruined except by his own hand.

I wonder that no criminal has ever pleaded the ugliness of your city as an excuse for his crimes.

Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses.

You and I will always be friends." "Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that.