If You Want To Be Thought A

Most People Sell Their Souls, And Live With A Good Conscience On The Proceeds.

What Pursuit Is More Elegant Than That Of Collecting The Ignominies Of Our Nature And Transfixing Them For Show, Each On The Bright Pin Of A Polished Phrase?

I Can't Forgive My Friends For Dying; I Don't Find These Vanishing Acts Of Theirs At All Amusing.

The Test Of A Vocation Is The Love Of The Drudgery It Involves.

But Why Wasn't I Born, Alas, In An Age Of Adjectives; Why Can One No Longer Write Of Silver-shedding Tears And Moon-tailed Peacocks, Of Eloquent Death, Of The Negro And Star-enameled Night?