England Is Never In A Hurry Because

There Is Probably No Greater Idler Than Myself. And I Would Consider Myself A Lazy-bones If I Did Not Write So Many Volumes, And If I Did Not Admire My Diligence Once I Begin Writing.

The Sky Is One Whole, The Water Another; And Between Those Two Infinities The Soul Of Man Is In Loneliness.

Amid The Stillness Of The Night, In The Depths Of The Ravine, From The Direction In Which The Corpses Lay Suddenly Resounded A Kind Of Inhuman, Frightful Laughter In Which Quivered Despair, And Joy, And Cruelty, And Suffering, And Pain, And Sobbing, And Derision; The Heart-rending And Spasmodic Laughter Of The Insane Or Condemned.

I Know From Experience That To One Who Thinks Much And Feels Deeply, It Often Seems That He Has Only To Put Down His Thoughts And Feelings In Order To Produce Something Altogether Out Of The Common; Yet As Soon As He Sets To Work He Falls Into A Certain Mannerism Of Style And Common Phraseology; His Thoughts Do Not Come Spontaneously, And One Might Almost Say That It Is Not The Mind That Directs The Pen, But The Pen Leads The Mind Into Common, Empty Artificiality.

An Excessive Preponderance Of An Idealistic Mood Is Harmful To Society: It Creates Daydreaming, Political Don Quixotism, Hope For Heavenly Intervention. This Is An Undeniable Truth--but It Is Also True That Every Extreme Is Harmful.