The Desire To Write Perfectly

What Am I That I Am Called Upon To Have Prejudices Concerning The Universe?

If We Assiduously Cultivate Our Powers Of Exaggeration, Perhaps We, Too, Shall Obtain The Paradise Of Liars. And There Raphael Shall Paint For Us Scores And Scores Of His Manifestly Impossible Pictures... And Shakespeare Will Lie To Us Of Fabulous Islands Far Past 'the Still-vex'd Bermoothes,' And Bring Us Fresh Tales From The Coast Of Bohemia. For No One Will Speak The Truth There, And We Shall All Be Perfectly Happy.

Men Have Begun To Observe And Classify, They Turn From Creation To Criticism... It Is The Fashion To Be A Wit... One Must Be Able To Conceal Indecency With Elegant Diction; Manners Are Everything, Morals Nothing.

I Fear You And, Yes, I Love You: And Yet I Cannot Believe. Why Could You Not Let Me Believe, Where So Many Believed? Or Else, Why Could You Not Let Me Deride, As The Remainder Derided So Noisily? O God, Why Could You Not Let Me Have Faith? For You Gave Me No Faith In Anything, Not Even In Nothingness. It Was Not Fair.

Why Is The King Of Hearts The Only One That Hasn't A Moustache?