I Really Wasn't Equipped To Be A

I'm Thought To Be A Tough Writer, But I'm Really A Softie.

We Cannot Understand All The Traits We Have Inherited. Sometimes We Can Be Strangers To Ourselves.

The World Outside Existed In A Kind Of Darkness; And We Inquired About Nothing.

The Melancholy Thing About The World Is That It Is Full Of Stupid People; And The World Is Run For The Benefit Of The Stupid And Common.

How Could People Like These, Without Words To Put To Their Emotions And Passions, Manage? They Could, At Best, Only Suffer Dumbly. Their Pains And Humiliations Would Work Themselves Out In Their Characters Alone: Like Evil Spirits Possessing A Body, So That The Body Itself Might Appear Innocent Of What It Did.