Perched Upon A Bust Of

That The Play Is The Tragedy, “man,” And Its Hero, The Conqueror Worm.

Perversity Is The Human Thirst For Self-torture.

And So, Being Young And Dipt In Folly, I Fell In Love With Melancholy.

Blood Was Its Avatar And Its Seal.

There Are Few Persons Who Have Not, At Some Period Of Their Lives, Amused Themselves In Retracing The Steps By Which Particular Conclusions Of Their Own Minds Have Been Attained. The Occupation Is Often Full Of Interest And He Who Attempts It For The First Time Is Astonished By The Apparently Illimitable Distance And Incoherence Between The Starting-point And The Goal.