It So Difficult To Know What The

Nature Is Honest, We Aren't; We Embalm Our Dead.

There Is No Forgiveness In Nature.

Thought Itself Needs Words. It Runs On Them Like A Long Wire. And If It Loses The Habit Of Words, Little By Little It Becomes Shapeless, Somber.

We Cannot Bear To Regard Ourselves Simply As Playthings Of Blind Chance, We Cannot Admit To Feeling Ourselves Abandoned.

Nobody Is Bound By Any Obligation Unless It Has First Been Freely Accepted.