The World Will Avenge Itself

Everything Becomes Agitated. Ideas Quick-march Into Motion Like Battalions Of A Grand Army To Its Legendary Fighting Ground, And The Battle Rages. Memories Charge In, Bright Flags On High; The Cavalry Of Metaphor Deploys With A Magnificent Gallop; The Artillery Of Logic Rushes Up With Clattering Wagons And Cartridges; On Imagination's Orders, Sharpshooters Sight And Fire; Forms And Shapes And Characters Rear Up; The Paper Is Spread With Ink - For The Nightly Labor Begins And Ends With Torrents Of This Black Water, As A Battle Opens And Concludes With Black Powder.

In All Lands, Sailors Form A Race Apart. They Profess A Congenital Contempt For Landlubbers. As For The Tradesman, He Understands Nothing Of Sailors Nor Cares A Fig About Them. He Is Content To Rob Them If He Can.

Man's Condition Is Horrible Because, No Matter What Form His Happiness May Take, It Arises From Some Species Of Ignorance.

A Monster Which Devours Everything - That Is Familiarity.

Music Is Of Two Kinds: One Petty, Poor, Second-rate, Never Varying, Its Base The Hundred Or So Phrasings Which All Musicians Understand, A Babbling Which Is More Or Less Pleasant, The Life That Most Composers Live.