All things are inconstant except the faith in the soul, which changes all things and fills their inconstancy with light.
What dreams would he have, not seeing. Life a dream for him. Where is the justice being born that way?
The object of the artist is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another question.
You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mi
Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
