It Is Useless To Tell One Not

But Stories Somehow Lengthen When Begun.

But What Is Hope? Nothing But The Paint On The Face Of Existence; The Least Touch Of Truth Rubs It Off, And Then We See What A Hollow-cheeked Harlot We Have Got Hold Of.

Grief Should Be The Instructor Of The Wise; Sorrow Is Knowledge.

I Should, Many A Good Day, Have Blown My Brains Out, But For The Recollection That It Would Have Given Pleasure To My Mother-in-law.

Though I Love My Country, I Do Not Love My Countrymen.