The Success Or Failure Of A Life,

How Fatally The Entire Want Of Humor Cripples The Mind.

If I Can Get On To My Sofa And Occupy Myself For Four Hours, At Intervals Through The Day, Scribbling My Notes, And Able To Read The Books That Belong To Me, In That They Clarify The Density, And Shape The Formless Mass Within, Life Seems Inconceivably Rich.

Destitution And Excessive Luxury Develop Apparently The Same Ideals, The Same Marauding Attitude Towards Mankind, The Intensity Of Struggle For Material Goods, -- Surely Showing How Perfect Is The Meeting Of Extremes.

I Wonder Whether If I Had An Education I Should Have Been More Or Less A Fool That I Am.

The Difficulty About All This Dying, Is That You Can't Tell A Fellow Anything About It, So Where Does The Fun Come In?