Whiskey Has Killed More Men Than Bullets,

What Pursuit Is More Elegant Than That Of Collecting The Ignominies Of Our Nature And Transfixing Them For Show, Each On The Bright Pin Of A Polished Phrase?

All Our Lives We Are Putting Pennies — Our Most Golden Pennies — Into Penny-in-the-slot Machines That Are Almost Always Empty.

When They Come Downstairs From Their Ivory Towers, Idealists Are Very Apt To Walk Straight Into The Gutter.

We Should Nourish Our Souls On The Dew Of Poesy, And Manure Them As Well.

An Echo Of Music, A Face In The Street, The Wafer Of The New Moon, A Wanton Thought - Only In The Iridescence Of Things The Vagabond Soul Is Happy.