It Would Be Mockery To Call Such

Mysteries Force A Man To Think, And So Injure His Health.

That Man Is Not Truly Brave Who Is Afraid Either To Seem Or To Be, When It Suits Him, A Coward.

Sometimes I’m Terrified Of My Heart; Of Its Constant Hunger For Whatever It Is It Wants. The Way It Stops And Starts.

The Nose Of A Mob Is Its Imagination. By This, At Any Time, It Can Be Quietly Led.

That The Play Is The Tragedy, “man,” And Its Hero, The Conqueror Worm.