There Is Nothing Insignificant-nothing.

Farce Is Nearer Tragedy In Its Essence Than Comedy Is.

As Long As There Are Readers To Be Delighted With Calumny, There Will Be Found Reviewers To Calumniate.

The Secondary Imagination I Consider As An Echo Of The Former, Co-existing With The Conscious Will, Yet Still As Identical With The Primary In The Kind Of Its Agency, And Differing Only In Degree, And In The Mode Of Its Operation. It Dissolves, Diffuses, Dissipates, In Order To Recreate: Or Where This Process Is Rendered Impossible, Yet Still At All Events It Struggles To Idealize And To Unify. It Is Essentially Vital, Even As All Objects (as Objects) Are Essentially Fixed And Dead.

Death But Supplies The Oil For The Inextinguishable Lamp Of Life.

And Here Were Forests Ancient As The Hills, Enfolding Sunny Spots Of Greenery.