The Hippopotamus's Day Is Passed In Sleep;

Oh, Do Not Ask, 'what Is It?'/let Us Go And Make Our Visit.

A Prose That Is Altogether Alive Demands Something Of The Reader That The Ordinary Novel Reader Is Not Prepared To Give.

I Love Reading Another Reader’s List Of Favorites. Even When I Find I Do Not Share Their Tastes Or Predilections, I Am Provoked To Compare, Contrast, And Contradict. It Is A Most Healthy Exercise, And One Altogether Fruitful.

History May Be Servitude. History May Be Freedom. See, Now They Vanish. The Faces And Places, With The Self Which, As It Could, Loved Them, To Become Renewed, Transfigured, In Another Pattern.

Sensibility Alters From Generation To Generation In Everybody, Whether We Will Or No; But Expression Is Only Altered By A Man Of Genius.