But where is what I started for so long ago? And why is it yet unfound?
The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters, is simplicity.
Henceforth I ask not good fortune. I myself am good fortune.
All the past we leave behind; We debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world, Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march, Pioneers! O Pioneers!
And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?
But the people are ungrammatical, untidy, and their sins gaunt and ill-bred.