Sad Is His Lot, Who, Once At

What Mortal Is There, Over Whose First Joys And Happiness Does Not Break Some Storm, Dispelling With Its Icy Breath His Fanciful Illusions, And Shattering His Altar?

The Photographer Will Never Replace The Painter; One Is A Man, The Other A Machine. Let Us Compare Them No Longer. (1848)

Before This Century Shall Run Out, Journalism Will Be The Whole Press. Mankind Will Write Their Book Day By Day, Hour By Hour, Page By Page. Thought Will Spread Abroad With The Rapidity Of Light--instantly Conceived, Instantly Written, Instantly Understood At The Extremities Of The Earth.

There Is A Woman At The Begining Of All Great Things.

At Twenty Every One Is Republican.