Intellect Really Exists In Its Products; Its

I Love Being Superior To Myself Better Than [to] My Equals.

Real Pain Can Alone Cure Us Of Imaginary Ills. We Feel A Thousand Miseries Till We Are Lucky Enough To Feel Misery.

A Noise Like Of A Hidden Brook In The Leafy Month Of June, That To The Sleeping Woods All Night Singeth A Quiet Tune.

'tis A Month Before The Month Of May, And The Spring Comes Slowly Up This Way.

Iago's Soliloquy - The Motive-hunting Of A Motiveless Malignity - How Awful It Is!