Onehundredeleven

What are the sins of my race, Beloved, what are my people to thee? And...


Onehundredten

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own...


Onehundrednine

If the path be beautiful, let us not ask where it leads. ANATOLE FRANCE ...


Onehundredeight

The role of the artist is to ask questions, not answer them. ANTON...