Whither Should We Aim If Not Towards

Each Thought Becomes An Anxiety In My Brain. I Am Becoming The Ugliest Of All Things: A Busy Man.

They Establish Distinctions And Reserves Which I Cannot Apply To Myself, For I Exist Only As A Whole; My Only Claim Is To Be Natural, And The Pleasure I Feel In An Action, I Take As A Sign That I Ought To Do It.

It Is With Noble Sentiments That Bad Literature Gets Written.

There Are Very Few Monsters Who Warrant The Fear We Have Of Them.

Those Who Have Never Been Ill Are Incapable Of Real Sympathy For A Great Many Misfortunes