I Make It A Rule Always To

I Make It A Rule Always To Believe Compliments Implicitly For Five Minutes, And To Simmer Gently For Twenty More.

The Gain Isn't Counted To The Recluse And Inactive That, Having Nothing To Measure Themselves By And Never Being Tested By Failure, They Simmer And Soak Perpetually In Conscious Complacency.

I Wonder Whether If I Had An Education I Should Have Been More Or Less A Fool That I Am.

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.

I Think That If I Get Into The Habit Of Writing A Bit About What Happens, Or Rather Doesn't Happen, I May Lose A Little Of The Sense Of Isolation And Desolation Which Abides With Me. My Circumstances Allowing Of Nothing But The Ejaculation Of One-syllabled Reflections, A Written Monologue By That Most Interesting Being, Myself, May Have Its Yet To Be Discovered Consolations.