In The Faculty Of Writing

There Seems To Be An Unalterable Contradiction Between The Human Mind And Its Employments. How Can A Soul Be A Merchant? What Relation To An Immortal Being Have The Price Of Linseed, The Brokerage On Hemp? Can An Undying Creature Debit Petty Expenses And Charge For Carriage Paid? The Soul Ties Its Shoes; The Mind Washes Its Hands In A Basin. All Is Incongruous.

The Best History Is But Like The Art Of Rembrandt; It Casts A Vivid Light On Certain Selected Causes, On Those Which Were Best And Greatest; It Leaves All The Rest In Shadow And Unseen.

Great And Terrible Systems Of Divinity And Philosophy Lie Round About Us, Which, If True, Might Drive A Wise Man Mad.

We See But One Aspect Of Our Neighbor, As We See But One Side Of The Moon; In Either Case There Is Also A Dark Half, Which Is Unknown To Us. We All Come Down To Dinner, But Each Has A Room To Himself.

Writers Like Teeth Are Divided Into Incisors And Grinders.