“The true index of a man's character is the health of his wife.”
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We love but once, for once only are we perfectly equipped for loving.
The artist one day falls through a hole in the brambles, and from that moment he is following the dark rapids of an underground river which may sometimes flow so near to the surface that the laughing picnic parties are heard above.
Today the function of the artist is to bring imagination to science and science to imagination, where they meet, in the myth.
The worst vice of the solitary is the worship of his food.
