Art Is The Right Hand Of Nature.

You Worthy Critics, Or Whatever You May Call Yourselves, Are Ashamed Or Afraid Of The Momentary And Passing Madness Which Is Found In All Real Creators, The Longer Or Shorter Duration Of Which Distinguishes The Thinking Artist From The Dreamer. Hence Your Complaints Of Unfruitfulness, For You Reject Too Soon And Discriminate Too Severely.

Even The Weak Become Strong When They Are United.

Have Love. Not Love Alone For One, But Man As Man They Brother Call; And Scatter Like The Circling Sun Thy Charities On All.

Man Is Made Of The Wholly Common, And Custom Is His Nurse; Woe Then To Them Who Lay Irreverent Hands On His Old House-furniture, The Dear Inheritance From His Forefathers: For Time Consecrates, And What Is Gray With Age Becomes Religion.

Lose Not Yourself In A Far Off Time, Seize The Moment That Is Thine.