What Sense Of Superiority It Gives One

If I Can Get On To My Sofa And Occupy Myself For Four Hours, At Intervals Through The Day, Scribbling My Notes, And Able To Read The Books That Belong To Me, In That They Clarify The Density, And Shape The Formless Mass Within, Life Seems Inconceivably Rich.

Ah! Those Strange People Who Have The Courage To Be Unhappy! Are They Unhappy, By The Way?

Destitution And Excessive Luxury Develop Apparently The Same Ideals, The Same Marauding Attitude Towards Mankind, The Intensity Of Struggle For Material Goods, -- Surely Showing How Perfect Is The Meeting Of Extremes.

Though I Have No Productive Worth, I Have A Certain Value As An Indestructible Quantity.

The Gain Isn't Counted To The Recluse And Inactive That, Having Nothing To Measure Themselves By And Never Being Tested By Failure, They Simmer And Soak Perpetually In Conscious Complacency.