There Are Few Sorrows In Which A

People Before The Public Live An Imagined Life In The Thought Of Others, And Flourish Or Feel Faint As Their Self Outside Themselves Grows Bright Or Dwindles In That Mirror.

What Shall I Compare It To, This Fantastic Thing I Call My Mind? To A Waste-paper Basket, To A Sieve Choked With Sediment, Or To A Barrel Full Of Floating Froth And Refuse? No, What It Is Really Most Like Is A Spider's Web, Insecurely Hung On Leaves And Twigs, Quivering In Every Wind, And Sprinkled With Dewdrops And Dead Flies. And At Its Centre, Pondering Forever The Problem Of Existence, Sits Motionless The Spider-like And Uncanny Soul.

How Many Of Our Daydreams Would Darken Into Nightmares If There Seemed Any Danger Of Their Coming True!

We Need Two Kinds Of Acquaintances, One To Complain To, While To The Others We Boast.

When Elderly Invalids Meet With Fellow-victims Of Their Own Ailments, Then At Last Real Conversation Begins, And Life Is Delicious.