There Are, Indeed, Few Kinds Of Composition

I Look Upon This As I Did Upon The Dictionary: It Is All Work, And My Inducement To It Is Not Love Or Desire Of Fame, But The Want Of Money, Which Is The Only Motive To Writing That I Know Of.

A Man Who Uses A Great Many Words To Express His Meaning Is Like A Bad Marksman Who, Instead Of Aiming A Single Stone At An Object, Takes Up A Handful And Throws At It In Hopes He May Hit.

To Write Is, Indeed, No Unpleasing Employment, When One Sentiment Readily Produces Another, And Both Ideas And Expressions Present Themselves At The First Summons; But Such Happiness, The Greatest Genius Does Not Always Obtain; And Common Writers Know It Only To Such A Degree, As To Credit Its Possibility. Composition Is, For The Most Part, An Effort Of Slow Diligence And Steady Perseverance, To Which The Mind Is Dragged By Necessity Or Resolution, And From Which The Attention Is Every Moment Starting To More Delightful Amusements.

Integrity Without Knowledge Is Weak And Useless, And Knowledge Without Integrity Is Dangerous And Dreadful.

Books To Judicious Compilers, Are Useful; To Particular Arts And Professions, They Are Absolutely Necessary; To Men Of Real Science, They Are Tools: But More Are Tools To Them.