O God, Let Me Write Books! Please,

Conscience Represents A Fetich To Which Good People Sacrifice Their Own Happiness, Bad People Their Neighbors'.

Doesn't All Experience Crumble In The End To Mere Literary Material?

The Nearer She Came To Death, The More, By Some Perversity Of Nature, Did She Enjoy Living.

No Idea Is So Antiquitated That It Was Not Once Modern. No Idea Is So Modern That It Will Not Some Day Be Antiquitated . . . To Seize The Flying Thought Before It Escapes Us Is Our Only Touch With Reality.

Passion Alone Could Destroy Passion. All The Thinking In The World Could Not Make So Much As A Dent In Its Surface.