Englishmen are like that. They love life more and value it less than any other people in the world. - Zoë Akins

My cousin Cleofante does not believe in inspiration. She shuns the false energy of all stimulants, even those of criticism and sympathy, when she sets herself to a task. What she does, she does alone—unencouraged, unadvised, unmoved. She has a man’s broad and vital technique, and a man’s ability for thinking straight and far. For years I have watched her work,—coldly, intelligently, solely with the power of her brain,—achieving effects that are in no way miracles, but are matters of technique and deliberation.

T<small>ILLERTON</small>: "To him that hath it shall be given—" She hath ... that's all. That's greatness. P<small>RESCOTT</small>: One sort of greatness, maybe. T<small>ILLERTON</small>: Even the great can have only their own sort of greatness. P<small>RESCOTT</small>: And it's often only that they're great sponges. T<small>ILLERTON</small>: Often, yes, or great roses for whose blooming the trees have been pruned and stripped. But they make the beauty of the world and that's enough.

In all my locked-up songs </br> No one but you belongs.