The Gain Isn't Counted To The Recluse

The Gain Isn't Counted To The Recluse And Inactive That, Having Nothing To Measure Themselves By And Never Being Tested By Failure, They Simmer And Soak Perpetually In Conscious Complacency.

I Think That If I Get Into The Habit Of Writing A Bit About What Happens, Or Rather Doesn't Happen, I May Lose A Little Of The Sense Of Isolation And Desolation Which Abides With Me. My Circumstances Allowing Of Nothing But The Ejaculation Of One-syllabled Reflections, A Written Monologue By That Most Interesting Being, Myself, May Have Its Yet To Be Discovered Consolations.

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

How Fatally The Entire Want Of Humor Cripples The Mind.

Though I Have No Productive Worth, I Have A Certain Value As An Indestructible Quantity.