Even Imperfection Itself May Have

It Is One Of The Misfortunes In Life That One Must Read Thousands Of Books Only To Discover That One Need Not Have Read Them.

I Feel That There Is No Such Thing As Ultimate Forgetting; Traces Once Impressed Upon The Memory Are Indestructible.

Here Was The Secret Of Happiness, About Which Philosophers Had Disputed For So Many Ages, At Once Discovered; Happiness Might Now Be Bought For A Penny, And Carried In The Waistcoat-pocket; Portable Ecstasies Might Be Had Corked Up In A Pint-bottle; And Peace Of Mind Could Be Sent Down By The Mail.

It Is An Impressive Truth That Sometimes In The Very Lowest Forms Of Duty, Less Than Which Would Rank A Man As A Villain, There Is, Nevertheless The Sublimest Ascent Of Self-sacrifice. To Do Less Would Class You As An Object Of Eternal Scorn, To Do So Much Presumes The Grandeur Of Heroism.

But My Way Of Writing Is Rather To Think Aloud, And Follow My Own Humours, Than Much To Consider Who Is Listening To Me; And, If I Stop To Consider What Is Proper To Be Said To This Or That Person, I Shall Soon Come To Doubt Whether Any Part At All Is Proper.