"A book may be compared to your neighbor: if it be good, it cannot last too long; if bad, you cannot ..." — Rupert Brooke

We always love those who admire us; we do not always love those whom we admire.

Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.

Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.

The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.