When One Realizes That His Life Is

A Man Who Can Be Entertaining For A Full Day Will Be In His Grave By Night-fall.

The Bad Poet Is A Toady Mimicking Nature.

We Are A Most Solitary People, And We Live, Repelled By One Another, In The Gray, Outcast Cities Of Cain.

Hardly A Book Of Human Worth, Be It Heaven's Own Secret, Is Honestly Placed Before The Reader; It Is Either Shunned, Given A Periclean Funeral Oration In A Hundred And Fifty Words, Or Interred In The Potter's Field Of The Newspapers Back Pages.

One Of The Weaknesses In The Cooperative Is That It Has Never Been Sufficiently Leavened By The Imagination. This Is A Quick-silver Faculty, And Likely To Be A Cause Of Worry To Any Collective Settlement.