The Difficulty About All This Dying, Is

What Sense Of Superiority It Gives One To Escape Reading Some Book Which Every One Else Is Reading.

What One Reads, Or Rather All That Comes To Us, Is Surely Only Of Interest And Value In Proportion As We Find Ourselves Therein, -- Form Given To What Was Vague, What Slumbered Stirred To Life.

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.

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

The Difficulty About All This Dying, Is That You Can't Tell A Fellow Anything About It, So Where Does The Fun Come In?