Bohemia has no banner. It survives by discretion.
Bohemia is nothing more than the little country in which you do not live. If you try to obtain citizenship in it, at once the court and retinue pack the royal archives and treasure and move away beyond the hills.
I could I trust starve like a gentleman. It's listed as part of the poetic training, you know.
It is not my fault that certain so-called bohemian elements have found in my writings something to hang their peculiar beatnik theories on.
The modern picture of the artist began to form: The poor, but free spirit, plebeian but aspiring only to be classless, to cut himself forever free from the bonds of the greedy bourgeoisie, to be whatever the fat burghers feared most, to cross the line wherever they drew it, to look at the world in a way they couldn't see, to be high, live low, stay young forever — in short, to be the bohemian.
Well, isn't Bohemia a place where everyone is as good as everyone else — and must not a waiter be a little less than a waiter to be a good Bohemian?