The Test Of A Vocation

The Mere Process Of Growing Old Together Will Make The Slightest Acquaintance Seem A Bosom Friend.

What Shall I Compare It To, This Fantastic Thing I Call My Mind? To A Waste-paper Basket, To A Sieve Choked With Sediment, Or To A Barrel Full Of Floating Froth And Refuse? No, What It Is Really Most Like Is A Spider's Web, Insecurely Hung On Leaves And Twigs, Quivering In Every Wind, And Sprinkled With Dewdrops And Dead Flies. And At Its Centre, Pondering Forever The Problem Of Existence, Sits Motionless The Spider-like And Uncanny Soul.

Fine Writers Should Split Hairs Together, And Sit Side By Side, Like Friendly Apes, To Pick The Fleas From Each Others Fur.

An Improper Mind Is A Perpetual Feast.

Don't Laugh At Youth For His Affectations; He Is Only Trying On One Face After Another To Find His Own.