Boston: Their Hotels Are Bad. Their Pumpkin

I Am Walking Like A Bewitched Corpse, With The Certainty Of Being Eaten By The Infinite, Of Being Annulled By The Only Existing Absurd.

The Mere Imitation, However Accurate, Of What Is In Nature, Entitles No Man To The Sacred Name Of Artist

Life Is For The Strong, To Be Lived By The Strong And If Need Be, Taken By The Strong. The Weak Were Put On Earth To Give The Strong Pleasure.

That The Play Is The Tragedy, “man,” And Its Hero, The Conqueror Worm.

There Are Chords In The Hearts Of The Most Reckless Which Cannot Be Touched Without Emotion.