What Comes From The Heart Goes To

The Secondary Imagination I Consider As An Echo Of The Former, Co-existing With The Conscious Will, Yet Still As Identical With The Primary In The Kind Of Its Agency, And Differing Only In Degree, And In The Mode Of Its Operation. It Dissolves, Diffuses, Dissipates, In Order To Recreate: Or Where This Process Is Rendered Impossible, Yet Still At All Events It Struggles To Idealize And To Unify. It Is Essentially Vital, Even As All Objects (as Objects) Are Essentially Fixed And Dead.

Farce Is Nearer Tragedy In Its Essence Than Comedy Is.

Work Without Hope Draws Nectar In A Sieve, And Hope Without An Object Cannot Live.

Iambics March From Short To Long;-- With A Leap And A Bound The Swift Anapaests Throng

The Misery Of Human Life Is Made Up Of Large Masses, Each Separated From The Other By Certain Intervals. One Year The Death Of A Child; Years After, A Failure In Trade; After Another Longer Or Shorter Interval, A Daughter May Have Married Unhappily; In All But The Singularly Unfortunate, The Integral Parts That Compose The Sum-total Of The Unhappiness Of A Man's Life Are Easily Counted And Distinctly Remembered.