Every Man Is A Channel Through Which

I Find Nothing Healthful Or Exalting In The Smooth Conventions Of Society. I Do Not Like The Close Air Of Saloons. I Begin To Suspect Myself To Be A Prisoner, Though Treated With All This Courtesy And Luxury. I Pay A Destructive Tax In My Conformity.

A Man Is A Golden Impossibility. The Line He Must Walk Is A Hair's Breadth. The Wise Through Excess Of Wisdom Is Made A Fool.

If You Are Wise, You Will Dread A Prosperity Which Only Loads You With More.

Evil Is Merely Privative, Not Absolute: It Is Like Cold, Which Is The Privation Of Beat.

Great Is Paint; Nay, God Is The Painter; And We Rightly Accuse The Critic Who Destroys Too Many Illusions. Society Does Not Love Its Unmaskers.