Pleasure Has No Logic; It Never Treads

Seated In My Library At Night, And Looking On The Silent Faces Of My Books, I Am Occasionally Visited By A Strange Sense Of The Supernatural.

A Bottomless Pit Of Violence, A Tower Of Babel Where All Are Speakers And No Hearers.

A Brave Soul Is A Thing Which All Things Serve.

To Have To Die Is A Distinction Of Which No Man Is Proud.

In The Entire Circle Of The Year There Are No Days So Delightful As Those Of A Fine October.