One's Own Vanities And Humiliations I Find

There Are Few Sorrows In Which A Good Income Is Of No Avail.

Style Is A Magic Wand, And Turns Everything To Gold That It Touches.

What Shall I Compare It To, This Fantastic Thing I Call My Mind? To A Waste-paper Basket, To A Sieve Choked With Sediment, Or To A Barrel Full Of Floating Froth And Refuse? No, What It Is Really Most Like Is A Spider's Web, Insecurely Hung On Leaves And Twigs, Quivering In Every Wind, And Sprinkled With Dewdrops And Dead Flies. And At Its Centre, Pondering Forever The Problem Of Existence, Sits Motionless The Spider-like And Uncanny Soul.

A Best-seller Is The Gilded Tomb Of A Mediocre Talent

All Reformers, However Strict Their Social Conscience, Live In Houses Just As Big As They Can Pay For.