There Is A Chord In

Fame Nowadays Is Little Else But Notoriety.

There Is No Knife That Cuts So Sharply And With Such Poisoned Blade As Treachery.

When You Talk Yourself, You Think How Witty, How Original, How Acute You Are; But When Another Does So, You Are Very Apt To Think Only - What A Crib From Rochefoucauld!

Histories In Blazonry And Poems In Stone.

Love, The One Supreme, Unceasing Source Of Human Felicity, The One Sole Joy Which Lifts The Whole Mortal Existence Into The Empyrean, Was By It [christianity] Degraded Into The Mere Mechanical Action Of Reproduction.