In A Tavern Everybody Puts On Airs

He Who Loves The Bristle Of Bayonets Only Sees In The Glitter What Beforehand He Feels In His Heart. It Is Avarice And Hatred; It Is That Quivering Lip, That Cold, Hating Eye, Which Built Magazines And Powder-houses.

I Do Not Hesitate To Read. All Good Books In Translations. What Is Really Best In Any Book Is Translatable-any Real Insight Or Broad Human Sentiment.

It Does Not Need That A Poem Should Be Long. Every Word Was Once A Poem.

Works Of The Intellect Are Great Only By Comparison With Each Other.

Every Advantage Has Its Tax.