They That Have Grown Old In A

The Most Heterogeneous Ideas Are Yoked By Violence Together.

Every Man Who Attacks My Belief, Diminishes In Some Degree My Confidence In It, And Therefore Makes Me Uneasy; And I Am Angry With Him Who Makes Me Uneasy.

I Have Thought Of A Pulley To Raise Me Gradually; But That Would Give Me Pain, As It Would Counteract My Natural Inclination. I Would Have Something That Can Dissipate The Inertia And Give Elasticity To The Muscles. We Can Heat The Body, We Can Cool It; We Can Give It Tension Or Relaxation; And Surely It Is Possible To Bring It Into A State In Which Rising From Bed Will Not Be A Pain.

Genius Now And Then Produces A Lucky Trifle. We Still Read The Dove Of Anacreon, And Sparrow Of Catullus; And A Writer Naturally Pleases Himself With A Performance Which Owes Nothing To The Subject.

A Minute Analysis Of Life At Once Destroys That Splendor Which Dazzles The Imagination. Whatsoever Grandeur Can Display, Or Luxury Enjoy, Is Procured By Offices Of Which The Mind Shrinks From The Contemplation. All The Delicacies Of The Table May Be Traced Back To The Shambles And The Dunghill; All Magnificence Of Building Was Hewn From The Quarry, And All The Pomp Of Ornament Dug From Among The Damps And Darkness Of The Mine.