Life Is A Hideous Thing.

In Relating The Circumstances Which Have Led To My Confinement Within This Refuge For The Demented, I Am Aware That My Present Position Will Create A Natural Doubt Of The Authenticity Of My Narrative.

Ocean Is More Ancient Than The Mountains, And Freighted With The Memories And The Dreams Of Time.

In Its Flawless Grace And Superior Self-sufficiency I Have Seen A Symbol Of The Perfect Beauty And Bland Impersonality Of The Universe Itself, Objectively Considered, And In Its Air Of Silent Mystery There Resides For Me All The Wonder And Fascination Of The Unknown.

I Am Disillusioned Enough To Know That No Man's Opinion On Any Subject Is Worth A Damn Unless Backed Up With Enough Genuine Information To Make Him Really Know What He's Talking About.

The Glorious Dryden, Refiner And Purifier Of English Verse, Did Less For Rhyme Than He Did For Metre.