It Seems To Me Like Stealing, For

Satisfaction, Even After One Has Dined Well, Is Not So Interesting And Eager A Feeling As Hunger.

There Was A Patient Look On The Old Man's Face, As If The World Were A Great Mistake And He Had Nobody With Whom To Speak His Own Language Or Find Companionship.

There Is Something Out Of Gear About Graded Schools And All That. Memory Is Developed At The Expense Of What In General We Are Pleased To Call Thought And Character.

So We Die Before Our Own Eyes; So We See Some Chapters Of Our Lives Come To Their Natural End.

In The Life Of Each Of Us, I Said To Myself, There Is A Place Remote And Islanded, And Given To Endless Regret Or Secret Happiness; We Are Each The Uncompanioned Hermit And Recluse Of An Hour Or A Day; We Understand Our Fellows Of The Cell To Whatever Age Of History They May Belong.