Unfathomable Mind, Now Beacon, Now Sea.

The Whisky Bears A Grudge Against The Decanter.

Habit Is The Ballast That Chains The Dog To His Vomit.

All I Know Is What The Words Know, And Dead Things, And That Makes A Handsome Little Sum, With A Beginning And A Middle And An End, As In The Well-built Phrase And The Long Sonata Of The Dead.

Poets Are The Sense, Philosophers The Intelligence Of Humanity.

Habit Is A Compromise Effected Between The Individual And His Environment, Or Between The Individual And His Own Organic Eccentricities, The Guarantee Of A Dull Inviolability, The Lightning-conductor Of His Existence.