A Thousand Kindnesses Do Not Make Up

I Don't Like Quintessential Certitude.

Stupidity Always Accompanies Evil. Or Evil, Stupidity.

The Terrible Beast, That No One May Understand, Came To My Side, And Put Down His Head In Love.

The Intellectual Is A Middle-class Product; If He Is Not Born Into The Class He Must Soon Insert Himself Into It, In Order To Exist. He Is The Fine Nervous Flower Of The Bourgeoisie.

But Is There Any Reason To Believe That A Woman's Spiritual Fibre Is Less Sturdy Than A Man's? Is It Not Possible For A Woman To Come To Terms With Herself If Not With The World; To Withdraw More And More, As Time Goes On, Her Own Personality From Her Productions; To Stop Childish Fears Of Death And Eschew Charming Rebellions Against Facts?