All women are not Helen, I know that, but have Helen in their hearts.
No ideas but in things.
Empty pockets make empty heads.
THESE are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night and the heart plunges lower than night.
The only realism in art is of the imagination.
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year.