How Sick One Gets Of Being "good,"

Physical Pain However Great Ends In Itself And Falls Away Like Dry Husks From The Mind, Whilst Moral Discords And Nervous Horrors Sear The Soul.

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

How Heroic To Be Able To Suppress One's Vanity To The Extent Of Confessing That The Game Is Too Hard.

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.

It Is So Comic To Hear Oneself Called Old, Even At Ninety I Suppose!