Perhaps Out There, Somewhere, Someone

Mere Elegance Of Language Can Produce At Best But An Empty Renown.

Often Have I Wondered With Much Curiosity As To Our Coming Into This World And What Will Follow Our Departure.

I Had Got This Far, And Was Thinking Of What To Say Next, And As My Habit Is, I Was Pricking The Paper Idly With My Pen. And I Thought How, Between One Dip Of The Pen And The Next, Time Goes On, And I Hurry, Drive Myself, And Speed Toward Death. We Are Always Dying. I While I Write, You While You Read, And Others While They Listen Or Stop Their Ears, They Are All Dying.

Books Have Led Some To Learning And Others To Madness.

I Would Have Preferred To Have Been Born In Any Other Time Than Our Own.