I Am An Omnivorous Reader With A

Life, My Dear Watson, Is Infinitely Stranger Than Fiction; Stranger Than Anything Which The Mind Of Man Could Invent. We Could Not Conceive The Things That Are Merely Commonplace To Existence. If We Could Hover Over This Great City, Remove The Roofs, And Peep In At The Things Going On, It Would Make All Fiction, With Its Conventionalities And Foreseen Conclusions Flat, Stale And Unprofitable.

Ah! My Dear Watson, There We Come Into Those Realms Of Conjecture, Where The Most Logical Mind May Be At Fault. Sherlock Holmes Speaking With Dr. Watson.

Of All Ghosts The Ghosts Of Our Old Loves Are The Worst.

What Is The Meaning Of It, Watson? Said Holmes Solemnly As He Laid Down The Paper. "what Object Is Served By This Circle Of Misery And Violence And Fear? It Must Tend To Some End, Or Else Our Universe Is Ruled By Chance, Which Is Unthinkable. But What End? There Is The Great Standing Perennial Problem To Which Human Reason Is As Far From An Answer As Ever.

Skill Is Fine, And Genius Is Splendid, But The Right Contacts Are More Valuable Than Either.