Perfection Is The Measure Of

How Often Do I Lull My Seething Blood To Rest, For You Have Never Seen Anything So Unsteady, So Uncertain, As This Heart.

To The Man Of Thought Almost Nothing Is Really Ridiculous.

The Decline In Literature Indicates A Decline In The Nation. The Two Keep Pace In Their Downward Tendency.

Where A Man Has A Passion For Meditating Without The Capacity Of Thinking, A Particular Idea Fixes Itself Fast, And Soon Creates A Mental Disease.

Publishers Are All Cohorts Of The Devil; There Must Be A Special Hell For Them Somewhere.