Beautiful things grow to a certain height and then they fail and fade off, breathing out memories as they decay - F. Scott Fitzgerald

One should . . . be able to see things as hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise.

I live in a house over there on the Island, and in that house there is a man waiting for me. When he drove up at the door I drove out of the dock because he says I’m his ideal.

Once upon a time all the men of mind and genius in the world became of one belief—that is to say, of no belief. But it wearied them to think that within a few years after their death many cults and systems and prognostications would be ascribed to them which they had never meditated nor intended. So they said to one another: