Passions Are Merely Ideas In Their Initial

We Survive On Novelty, So Much Less Demanding Than Commitment.

I Was Lying, But I Wanted To Rouse Him. I Have An Inborn Urge To Contradict; My Whole Life Has Been A Mere Chain Of Sad And Futile Opposition To The Dictates Of Either Heart Or Reason. The Presence Of An Enthusiast Makes Me As Cold As A Midwinter's Day, And, I Believe, Frequent Association With A Listless Phlegmatic Would Make Me An Impassioned Dreamer.

I Have A Congenital Desire To Contradict; My Whole Life Is Merely A Chain Of Sad And Unsuccessful Contradictions To Heart And Mind. When Faced With Enthusiasm, I Am Seized By A Midwinter Freeze, And I Suppose That Frequent Dealings With Sluggish Phlegmatics Would Have Made A Passionate Dreamer.

Anyone Who Has Chanced Like Me To Roam Through Desolate Mountains And Studied At Length Their Fantastic Shapes And Drunk The Invigorating Air Of Their Valleys Can Understand Why I Wish To Describe And Depict These Magic Scenes For Others.

It Is Sad To See A Young Man's Fondest Hopes And Dreams Shattered When The Rose-colured Veil Is Plucked Away And He Sees The Actions And Feelings Of Men For What They Are. But He Still Has The Hope Of Replacing His Old Illusions With Others, Just As Fleeting, But Also Just As Sweet.