The Bad Poet Is A Toady Mimicking

Genius, Like Truth, Has A Shabby And Neglected Mien.

When One Realizes That His Life Is Worthless He Either Commits Suicide Or Travels.

We Are A Most Solitary People, And We Live, Repelled By One Another, In The Gray, Outcast Cities Of Cain.

I Have No Confidence In A Man Whose Faults You Cannot See.

The Newspaper Has Debauched The American Until He Is A Slavish, Simpering, And Angerless Citizen; It Has Taught Him To Be A Lump Mass-man Toward Fraud, Simony, Murder, And Lunacies More Vile Than Those Of Commodus Or Caracalla.