Books Are A Triviality. Life Alone Is

Heroes, It Would Seem, Exist Always And A Certain Worship Of Them.

The Vulgarity Of Inanimate Things Requires Time To Get Accustomed To; But Living, Breathing, Bustling, Plotting, Planning, Human Vulgarity Is A Species Of Moral Ipecacuanha, Enough To Destroy Any Comfort.

Self-contemplation Is Infallibly The Symptom Of Disease.

Even In The Meanest Sorts Of Labor, The Whole Soul Of A Man Is Composed Into A Kind Of Real Harmony The Instant He Sets Himself To Work.

The Times Are Very Bad. Very Well, You Are There To Make Them Better.