The Profession Of The Writer Has Its

Nevertheless, In This Sea Of Human Wretchedness And Malice There Bloomed At Times Compassion, As A Pale Flower Blooms In A Putrid Marsh.

The Fact Is That Between The Classes There Is A Vast Gulf That Precludes All Mutual Understanding, And Makes Simultaneous Efforts Simply Impossible.

Day Is Like Day As Two Beads In A Rosary, Unless Changes Of Weather Form The Only Variety.

There Is Within Us A Moral Instinct Which Forbids Us To Rejoice At The Death Of Even An Enemy.

There Is Probably No Greater Idler Than Myself. And I Would Consider Myself A Lazy-bones If I Did Not Write So Many Volumes, And If I Did Not Admire My Diligence Once I Begin Writing.