For One Thing, I Know Every Book

I Have The Happiness Of A Passing Moment, And What More Can Mortal Ask?

To Every Man It Is Decreed: Thou Shalt Live Alone. Happy They Who Imagine That They Have Escaped The Common Lot; Happy, Whilst They Imagine It.

It Is Because Nations Tend Towards Stupidity And Baseness That Mankind Moves So Slowly; It Is Because Individuals Have A Capacity For Better Things That It Moves At All.

In Nothing More Is The English Genius For Domesticity More Notably Declared Than In The Institution Of This Festival-almost One May Call It-of Afternoon Tea...the Mere Chink Of Cups And Saucers Tunes The Mind To Happy Repose.

And Why Should Any Man Who Writes, Even If He Writes Things Immortal, Nurse Anger At The World's Neglect? Who Asked Him To Publish? Who Promised Him A Hearing? Who Has Broken Faith With Him? Your Poem, Your Novel, Who Bargained With You For It?