With Monuments As With Men,

This Coffee Falls Into Your Stomach, And Straightway There Is A General Commotion. Ideas Begin To Move Like The Battalions Of The Grand Army Of The Battlefield, And The Battle Takes Place. Things Remembered Arrive At Full Gallop, Ensuing To The Wind. The Light Cavalry Of Comparisons Deliver A Magnificent Deploying Charge, The Artillery Of Logic Hurry Up With Their Train And Ammunition, The Shafts Of With Start Up Like Sharpshooters. Similes Arise, The Paper Is Covered With Ink; For The Struggle Commences And Is Concluded With Torrents Of Black Water, Just As A Battle With Powder.

Sects Differ More In Name Than Tenets.

The Smallest Flower Is A Thought, A Life Answering To Some Feature Of The Great Whole, Of Whom They Have A Persistent Intuition.

A Woman, Even A Prude, Is Not Long At A Loss, However Dire Her Plight. She Would Seen Always To Have In Hand The Fig Leaf Our Mother Eve Bequeathed To Her.

I Should Like One Of These Days To Be So Well Known, So Popular, So Celebrated, So Famous, That It Would Permit Me . . . To Break Wind In Society, And Society Would Think It A Most Natural Thing.