Poetry Is The Attempt Which Man Makes

Conviction Is Worthless Unless It Is Converted Into Conduct.

The Insignificant, The Empty, Is Usually The Loud; And After The Manner Of A Drum, Is Louder Even Because Of Its Emptiness.

With Respect To Duels, Indeed, I Have My Own Ideas. Few Things In This So Surprising World Strike Me With More Surprise. Two Little Visual Spectra Of Men, Hovering With Insecure Enough Cohesion In The Midst Of The Unfathomable, And To Dissolve Therein, At Any Rate, Very Soon, Make Pause At The Distance Of Twelve Paces Asunder; Whirl Around, And Simultaneously By The Cunningest Mechanism, Explode One Another Into Dissolution; And, Offhand, Become Air, And Non-extant--the Little Spitfires!

The Fine Arts Once Divorcing Themselves From Truth Are Quite Certain To Fall Mad, If They Do Not Die.

Love Not Pleasure; Love God. This Is The Everlasting Yea, Wherein All Contradiction Is Solved.