Fear, born of that stern matron, Responsibility.

The artist isn’t particularly keen on getting a thing done, as you call it. He gets his pleasure out of doing it, playing with it, fooling with it, if you like. The mere completion of it is an incident.

There is far too much talk of love and grief benumbing the faculties, turning the hair gray, and destroying a man’s interest in his work. Grief has made many a man look younger.

People don’t ever seem to realize that doing what’s right, writes no guarantee against misfortune.

Responsibility’s like a string we can only see the middle of. Both ends are out of sight.

Fear, born of the stern matron Responsibility, sits on one’s shoulders like some heavy imp of darkness, and one is preoccupied and, possibly, cantankerous.

The world is not interested in the storms you encountered, but did you bring in the ship?

The world belongs to the Enthusiast who keeps cool.

There is a pleasure unknown to the landsman in reading at sea.

It is extraordinary how many emotional storms one may weather in safety if one is ballasted with ever so little gold.