It Is So Comic To Hear Oneself

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.

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.

I Wonder, Whether, If I Had Had Any Education I Should Have Been More, Or Less, Of A Fool Than I Am. It Would Have Deprived Me Surely Of Those Exquisite Moments Of Mental Flatulence Which Every Now And Then Inflate The Cerebral Vacuum With A Delicious Sense Of Latent Possibilities-of Stretching Oneself To Cosmic Limits, And Who Would Ever Give Up The Reality Of Dreams For Relative Knowledge?

The Success Or Failure Of A Life, As Far As Posterity Goes, Seems To Lie In The More Or Less Luck Of Seizing The Right Moment Of Escape

What Sense Of Superiority It Gives One To Escape Reading Some Book Which Every One Else Is Reading.