One's Life Is Peculiar To One's Own

You Beat The Liver Out Of A Goose To Get A Pâté; You Pound The Muscles Of A Man's Cardia To Get A Philosopher.

No Man Needs Curing Of His Individual Sickness; His Universal Malady Is What He Should Look To.

The Night Is A Skin Pulled Over The Head Of Day That The Day May Be In Torment.

And Must I, Perchance, Like Careful Writers, Guard Myself Against The Conclusions Of My Readers?

Life Is Painful, Nasty And Short.. In My Case It Has Only Been Painful And Nasty.