You walk into a room, see a woman, and something happens. It's chemical. What are you going to do about it?

Art is the stored honey of the human soul, gathered on wings of misery and travail.

Words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible feelings and purposes.

Nothing is proved, all is permitted.

To the untraveled, territory other than their own familiar heath is invariably fascinating. Next to love it is the one thing that solaces and delights.

I believe in the compelling power of love. I do not understand it. I believe it to be the most fragrant blossom of all this thorny existence.

You walk into a room, see a woman, and something happens. It's chemical. What are you going to do about it?