"I have no name: I am but two days old. What shall I call thee? I happy am, Joy is my name. Sweet joy..." — William Blake

The man who never in his mind and thoughts travel'd to heaven is no artist.

Prisons are built with stones of Law. Brothels with the bricks of religion.

Can I see another's woe, and not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, and not seek for kind relief?

He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.