How Mutable Are Our Feelings, And How

Nothing Is More Painful To The Human Mind Than, After The Feelings Have Been Worked Up By A Quick Succession Of Events, The Dead Calmness Of Inaction And Certainty Which Follows And Deprives The Soul Both Of Hope And Fear.

The World To Me Was A Secret, Which I Desired To Discover; To Her It Was A Vacancy, Which She Sought To People With Imaginations Of Her Own.

The Air Of Fashion, Which Many Young People Are So Eager To Attain, Always Strikes Me Like The Studied Attitudes Of Some Modern Prints, Copied With Tasteless Servility After The Antigue; The Soul Is Left Out, And None Of The Parts Are Tied Together By What May Properly Be Termed Character.

My Dreams Were At Once More Fantastic And Agreeable Than My Writings.

I Am Alone And Miserable. Only Someone As Ugly As I Am Could Love Me.