There Is Not Any Memory With Less

No Person Of Quality Ever Remembers Social Restrictions Save When Considering How Most Piquantly To Break Them.

A Man Of Genuine Literary Genius, Since He Possesses A Temperament Whose Susceptibilities Are Of Wider Area Than Those Of Any Other, Is Inevitably Of All People The One Most Variously Affected By His Surroundings. And It Is He, In Consequence, Who Of All People Most Faithfully And Compactly Exhibits The Impress Of His Times And His Times' Tendencies, Not Merely In His Writings Where It Conceivably Might Be Just Predetermined Affectation But In His Personality.

But With Man The Case Is Otherwise, In That When Logic Leads To Any Humiliating Conclusion, The Sole Effect Is To Discredit Logic.

If We Assiduously Cultivate Our Powers Of Exaggeration, Perhaps We, Too, Shall Obtain The Paradise Of Liars. And There Raphael Shall Paint For Us Scores And Scores Of His Manifestly Impossible Pictures... And Shakespeare Will Lie To Us Of Fabulous Islands Far Past 'the Still-vex'd Bermoothes,' And Bring Us Fresh Tales From The Coast Of Bohemia. For No One Will Speak The Truth There, And We Shall All Be Perfectly Happy.

For Although This Was A Very Heroic War, With A Parade Of Every Sort Of High Moral Principle, And With The Most Sonorous Language Employed Upon Both Sides, It Somehow Failed To Bring About Either The Reformation Or The Ruin Of Humankind: And After The Conclusion Of The Murdering And General Breakage, The World Went On Pretty Much As It Has Done After All Other Wars, With A Vague Notion That A Deal Of Time And Effort Had Been Unprofitably Invested, And A Conviction That It Would Be Inglorious To Say So.