Until You Understand A Writer's Ignorance, Presume

Language Is The Armory Of The Human Mind, And At Once Contains The Trophies Of Its Past And The Weapons Of Its Future Conquests.

How Inimitably Graceful Children Are In General-before They Learn To Dance.

A Noise Like Of A Hidden Brook In The Leafy Month Of June, That To The Sleeping Woods All Night Singeth A Quiet Tune.

Real Pain Can Alone Cure Us Of Imaginary Ills. We Feel A Thousand Miseries Till We Are Lucky Enough To Feel Misery.

The History Of All The World Tells Us That Immoral Means Will Ever Intercept Good Ends.