Although It Is A Gloomy View To

The Above Proposition Is Occasionally Useful.

Writing Can Be Either Readable Or Precise, But Not At The Same Time.

I Feel As If One Would Only Discover On One's Death-bed What One Ought To Have Lived For, And Realise Too Late That One's Life Has Been Wasted. Any Passionate And Courageous Life Seems Good In Itself, Yet One Feels That Some Element Of Delusion Is Involved In Giving So Much Passion To Any Humanly Attainable Object. And So Irony Creeps Into The Very Springs Of One's Being.

Broadly Speaking, We Are In The Middle Of A Race Between Human Skill As A Means And Human Folly As An End.

The Reason Is, And By Rights Ought To Be, Slave To The Emotions.