When I Am Not Walking, I Am

Literature Is A Bad Crutch, But A Good Walking-stick.

The Man Must Have A Rare Recipe For Melancholy, Who Can Be Dull In Fleet Street.

I Conceive Disgust At These Impertinent And Misbecoming Familiarities Inscribed Upon Your Ordinary Tombstone.

Clap An Extinguisher Upon Your Irony If You Are Unhappily Blessed With A Vein Of It.

The World Meets Nobody Half Way.