Aid My Disillusionment, My Friend!

Because No Man Can Ever Feel His Own Identity Aright Except His Eyes Be Closed; As If Darkness Were Indeed The Proper Element Of Our Essences, Though Light Be More Congenial To Our Clayey Part.

We May Have Civilized Bodies And Yet Barbarous Souls.

The Further Our Civilization Advances Upon Its Present Lines So Much The Cheaper Sort Of Thing Does "fame" Become, Especially Of The Literary Sort. This Species Of "fame" A Waggish Acquaintance Says Can Be Manufactured To Order, And Sometimes Is So Manufactured.

See How Elastic Our Prejudices Grow When Once Love Comes To Bend Them.

My Means Are Sane, My Motives And My Object Mad.