When One Realizes That His

Genius, Like Truth, Has A Shabby And Neglected Mien.

Man Pines To Live But Cannot Endure The Days Of His Life.

Writing Is Conscience, Scruple, And The Farming Of Our Ancestors.

So Much Of Our Lives Is Given Over To The Consideration Of Our Imperfections That There Is No Time To Improve Our Imaginary Virtues. The Truth Is We Only Perfect Our Vices, And Man Is A Worse Creature When He Dies Than He Was When He Was Born.

To Write Is A Humiliation.