And So Faintly You Came Tapping, Tapping

And Now Have I Not Told You That What You Mistake For Madness Is But Overacuteness Of The Senses?

I Call To Mind Flatness And Dampness; And Then All Is Madness - The Madness Of A Memory Which Busies Itself Among Forbidden Things.

I Never Can Hear A Crowd Of People Singing And Gesticulating, All Together, At An Italian Opera, Without Fancying Myself At Athens, Listening To That Particular Tragedy, By Sophocles, In Which He Introduces A Full Chorus Of Turkeys, Who Set About Bewailing The Death Of Meleager.

If You Are Ever Drowned Or Hung, Be Sure And Make A Note Of Your Sensations.

Invisible Things Are The Only Realities.