The All Of Things Is An Infinite

The Graceful Minuet-dance Of Fancy Must Give Place To The Toilsome, Thorny Pilgrimage Of Understanding. On The Transition From The Age Of Romance To That Of Science.

Originality Is A Thing We Constantly Clamour For, And Constantly Quarrel With.

A Lie Should Be Trampled On And Extinguished Wherever Found. I Am For Fumigating The Atmosphere When I Suspect That Falsehood, Like Pestilence, Breathes Around Me.

To Me The Universe Was All Void Of Life, Of Purpose, Of Volition, Even Of Hostility; It Was One Huge, Dead, Immeasurable Steam-engine, Rolling On, In Its Dead Indifference, To Grind Me Limb From Limb. Oh Vast Gloomy, Solitary Golgotha, And Mill Of Death! Why Was The Living Banished Thither Companionless, Conscious? Why, If There Is No Devil; Nay, Unless The Devil Is Your God?

The Eye Of The Intellect "sees In All Objects What It Brought With It The Means Of Seeing."