If I Can Get On To My

How Sick One Gets Of Being "good," How Much I Should Respect Myself If I Could Burst Out And Make Everyone Wretched For Twenty-four Hours; Embody Selfishness.

I Think That If I Get Into The Habit Of Writing A Bit About What Happens, Or Rather Doesn't Happen, I May Lose A Little Of The Sense Of Isolation And Desolation Which Abides With Me. My Circumstances Allowing Of Nothing But The Ejaculation Of One-syllabled Reflections, A Written Monologue By That Most Interesting Being, Myself, May Have Its Yet To Be Discovered Consolations.

When Will Women Begin To Have The First Glimmer That Above All Other Loyalties Is The Loyalty Totruth, I.e., To Yourself, That Husband, Children, Friends And Countryare As Nothing To That.

How Fatally The Entire Want Of Humor Cripples The Mind.

Who Would Ever Give Up The Reality Of Dreams For Relative Knowledge?