Self-interest Is An Ineffable Feeling Which Shall

But Also Remember: If You Have Any Genuine Feelings, Hide Them Like Treasure; Never Let Anyone So Much As Suspect Them, Or You're Lost. Instead Of Being The Executioner, You'll Be The Victim. And If You Ever Fall In Love, Keep That Absolutely Secret! Never Breathe A Word Until You're Completely Sure Of The Person To Whom You Open Your Heart. And To Protect That Love, Even Before You Feel It, Learn To Despise The World.

There Are Houses In Certain Provincial Towns Whose Aspect Inspires Melancholy, Akin To That Called Forth By Sombre Cloisters, Dreary Moorlands, Or The Desolation Of Ruins. Within These Houses There Is, Perhaps, The Silence Of The Cloister, The Barrenness Of Moors, The Skeleton Of Ruins; Life And Movement Are So Stagnant There That A Stranger Might Think Them Uninhabited, Were It Not That He Encounters Suddenly The Pale, Cold Glance Of A Motionless Person, Whose Half-monastic Face Peers Beyond The Window-casing At The Sound Of An Unaccustomed Step.

In All Lands, Sailors Form A Race Apart. They Profess A Congenital Contempt For Landlubbers. As For The Tradesman, He Understands Nothing Of Sailors Nor Cares A Fig About Them. He Is Content To Rob Them If He Can.

To Those Who Have Exhausted Politics, Nothing Remains But Abstract Thought.

When A Woman Starts Talking About Her Duty, Her Regard For Appearances, And Her Respect For Religion, She Raises So Many Bulwarks Which She Delights To See Captured By Storm.