Novels Are To Love As Fairy Tales

Common Sense In An Uncommon Degree Is What The World Calls Wisdom.

The Curiosity Of An Honorable Mind Willingly Rests There, Where The Love Of Truth Does Not Urge It Farther Onward, And The Love Of Its Neighbor Bids It Stop; In Other Words, It Willingly Stops At The Point Where The Interests Of Truth Do Not Beckon It Onward, And Charity Cries, Halt!

Ah! Well A-day! What Evil Looks / Had I From Old And Young! / Instead Of The Cross, The Albatross / About My Neck Was Hung.

The First Class Of Readers May Be Compared To An Hour-glass, Their Reading Being As The Sand; It Runs In And Runs Out, And Leaves Not A Vestige Behind. A Second Class Resembles A Sponge, Which Imbibes Everything, And Returns It In Nearly The Same State, Only A Little Dirtier. A Third Class Is Like A Jelly-bag, Which Allows All That Is Pure To Pass Away, And Retains Only The Refuse And Dregs. The Fourth Class May Be Compared To The Slave Of Golconda, Who, Casting Aside All That Is Worthless, Preserves Only The Pure Gems.

Chance Is But The Pseudonym Of God For Those Particular Cases, Which He Does Not Choose To Acknowledge Openly With His Own Sign Manual.