Order Is The Shape Upon Which Beauty

Add To This Cruelly Delicate Organism The Overpowering Necessity To Create, Create, Create - So That Without The Creating Of Music Or Poetry Or Books Or Buildings Or Something Of Meaning, His Very Breath Is Cut Off From Him. He Must Create, Must Pour Out Creation. By Some Strange, Unknown, Inward Urgency He Is Not Really Alive Unless He Is Creating.

All Birth Is Unwilling.

The Only Real Danger To Our Country Is From Within, That We Forget Our Own Power To Be What We Want To Be.

What The Common Man Cannot Understand He Hates.

Perhaps One Has To Be Very Old Before One Learns To Be Amused Rather Than Shocked.