We can see nothing face to face; our utmost seeing is but a fumbling of blind finger-ends in an overcrowded pocket.
- Lived
- 1835–1902
- Born
- Langar
- Died
- St John's Wood Road
- Nationality
- United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland
- Known as
- writer, photographer, composer, farmer
- Era
- 20th century
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Works (150)
Life is like playing a violin solo in public and learning the instrument as one goes on.
The Discobolus is put here because he is vulgar — He has neither vest nor pants with which to cover his limbs.
Stowed away in a Montreal lumber room The Discobolus standeth and turneth his face to the wall; Dusty, cobweb-covered, maimed and set at naught, Beauty crieth in an attic and no man regardeth: O God! O Montreal!
A hen is only an egg's way of making another egg.
The man who lets himself be bored is even more contemptible than the bore.
