I Like Sayers Of No Better Than

The Flowers Talk When The Wind Blows Over Them.

I Am At A Loss To Understand Why People Hold Miss Austen's Novels At So High A Rate, Which Seem To Me Vulgar In Tone, Sterile In Artistic Invention, Imprisoned In Their Wretched Conventions Of English Society, Without Genius, Wit, Or Knowledge Of The World. Never Was Life So Pinched And Narrow. ... All That Interests In Any Character [is This]: Has He (or She) The Money To Marry With? ... Suicide Is More Respectable.

If You Love And Serve Man, You Cannot, By Any Hiding Or Stratagem, Escape Remuneration.

Debt, Grinding Debt, Whose Iron Face The Widow, The Orphan, And The Sons Of Genius Fear And Hate; Debt, Which Consumes So Much Time, Which So Cripples And Disheartens A Great Spirit With Cares That Seem So Base, Is A Preceptor Whose Lessons Cannot Be Foregone, And Is Needed Most By Those Who Suffer From It Most.

What Strength Belongs To Every Plant And Animal In Nature. The Tree Or The Brook Has No Duplicity, No Pretentiousness, No Show. It Is, With All Its Might And Main, What It Is, And Makes One And The Same Impression And Effect At All Times. All The Thoughts Of A Turtle Are Turtle's, And Of A Rabbit, Rabbit's. But A Man Is Broken And Dissipated By The Giddiness Of His Will; He Does Not Throw Himself Into His Judgments; His Genius Leads Him One Way But 't Is Likely His Trade Or Politics In Quite Another.