We Allude To The Short Prose Narrative,

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

By A Route Obscure And Lonely Haunted By Ill Angels Only, Where An Eidolon, Named Night, On A Black Throne Reigns Upright, I Have Reached These Lands But Newly From An Ultimate Dim Thule -- From A Wild, Weird Clime That Lieth, Sublime, Out Of Space, Out Of Time.

To Observe Attentively Is To Remember Distinctly.

Man Is An Animal That Diddles, And There Is No Animal That Diddles But Man.

Believe Me, There Exists No Such Dilemma As That In Which A Gentleman Is Placed When He Is Forced To Reply To A Blackguard.