How Fatally The Entire Want Of Humor

Ah! Those Strange People Who Have The Courage To Be Unhappy! Are They Unhappy, By The Way?

What Sense Of Superiority It Gives One To Escape Reading Some Book Which Every One Else Is Reading.

Though I Have No Productive Worth, I Have A Certain Value As An Indestructible Quantity.

If I Can Get On To My Sofa And Occupy Myself For Four Hours, At Intervals Through The Day, Scribbling My Notes, And Able To Read The Books That Belong To Me, In That They Clarify The Density, And Shape The Formless Mass Within, Life Seems Inconceivably Rich.

How Sick One Gets Of Being "good," How Much I Should Respect Myself If I Could Burst Out And Make Everyone Wretched For Twenty-four Hours; Embody Selfishness.