Why Is It That Whenever I Hear

For Most People, Life Is Nasty, Brutish, And Short; For Me, It Has Simply Been Nasty And Brutish.

Love Becomes The Deposit Of The Heart, Analogous In All Degrees To The 'findings' In A Tomb. As In One Will Be Charted The Taken Place Of The Body, The Raiment, The Utensils Necessary To Its Other Life, So In The Heart Of The Lover Will Be Traced, As An Indelible Shadow, That Which He Loves.

Love Is The First Lie; Wisdom The Last.

And Must I, Perchance, Like Careful Writers, Guard Myself Against The Conclusions Of My Readers?

When One Wants To Become Cognizant Of The Color And The Texture Of The Soil, One Does Not Get A Ladder; One Gets A Shovel. When One Wants To Get Into Touch With The Texture Of The Universal Mind, One Does Not Go To Boston; One Goes To The Bowery.