Every Kind Of Writing Is Hypocritical.

Zuleika, On A Desert Island, Would Have Spent Most Of Her Time In Looking For A Man's Footprint.

For A Young Man, Sleep Is A Sure Solvent Of Distress. There Whirls Not For Him In The Night Any So Hideous Phantasmagoria As Will Not Become, In The Clarity Of The Next Morning, A Spruce Procession For Him To Lead. Brief The Vague Horror Of His Awakening; Memory Sweeps Back To Him, And He Sees Nothing Dreadful After All. "why Not?" Is The Sun's Bright Message To Him, And "why Not Indeed?" His Answer.

The One Real Goal Of Education Is To Leave A Person Asking Questions.

For People Who Like That Kind Of Thing, This Is The Kind Of Thing They Like.

Men Of Genius Are Not Quick Judges Of Character.