Only Poetry Or Madness Could Do Justice

The Sea Can Bind Us To Her Many Moods, Whispering To Us By The Subtle Token Of A Shadow Or A Gleam Upon The Waves, And Hinting In These Ways Of Her Mournfulness Or Rejoicing. Always She Is Remembering Old Things, And These Memories, Though We May Not Grasp Them, Are Imparted To Us, So That We Share Her Gaiety Or Remorse.

Our Brains Deliberately Make Us Forget Things, To Prevent Insanity

I Am Disillusioned Enough To Know That No Man's Opinion On Any Subject Is Worth A Damn Unless Backed Up With Enough Genuine Information To Make Him Really Know What He's Talking About.

Time, Space, And Natural Law Hold For Me Suggestions Of Intolerable Bondage, And I Can Form No Picture Of Emotional Satisfaction Which Does Not Involve Their Defeat - Especially The Defeat Of Time, So That One May Merge Oneself With The Whole Historic Stream And Be Wholly Emancipated From The Transient And The Ephemeral.

From Even The Greatest Of Horrors Irony Is Seldom Absent.