Injustice in this world is not something comparative; the wrong is deep, clear, and absolute in each private fate.
Everything in nature is lyrical in its ideal essence, tragic in its fate, and comic in its existence.
The Fates, like an absent-minded printer, seldom allow a single line to stand perfect and unmarred.
The wonder of an artist's performance grows with the range of his penetration, with the instinctive sympathy that makes him, in his mortal isolation, considerate of other men's fate and a great diviner of their secret, so that his work speaks to them kindly, with a deeper assurance than they could have spoken with to themselves.
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