The Written Word Has This Advantage, That

Is It Not Enough That We Cannot Make One Another Happy, Must We Also Rob One Another Of The Pleasures That Any Heart May Permit Itself Now And Then? And Name Me A Person Who In A Bad Mood Will Be Decent Enough To Hide It, To Bear It Alone, Without Destroying The Joy Around Him. Is It Not Rather An Inner Dissatisfaction With Our Own Unworthiness, A Dislike Of Ourselves That Is Always Associated With Envy Aggravated By Foolish Conceit? We See People Happy And Not Made Happy By Us, And That Is Unbearable.

Thou Must (in Commanding And Winning, Or Serving And Losing, Suffering Or Triumphing) Be Either Anvil Or Hammer.

One's Roused By This, Another Finds That Fit: Each Loves The Play For What He Brings To It.

To Tremble Before Anticipated Evils Is To Bemoan What Thou Hast Never Lost.

Superstition Is The Poetry Of Life. It Is Inherent In Man's Nature; And When We Think It Is Wholly Eradicated, It Takes Refuge In The Strangest Holes And Corners, Whence It Peeps Out All At Once, As Soon As It Can Do It With Safety.