Genius, Like Truth, Has A Shabby And

We Can Only Write Well About Our Sins Because It Is Too Difficult To Recall A Virtuous Act Or Even Whether It Was The Result Of Good Or Evil Motives.

It Is Very Perplexing How An Intrepid Frontier People, Who Fought A Wilderness, Floods, Tornadoes, And The Rockies, Cower Before Criticism, Which Is Regarded As A Malignant Tumor In The Imagination.

The Machine Has Had A Pernicious Effect Upon Virtue, Pity, And Love, And Young Men Used To Machines Which Induce Inertia, And Fear, Are Near Impotent.

The Earnings Of A Poet Could Be Reckoned By A Metaphysician Rather Than A Bookkeeper.

Everything Ultimately Fails, For We Die, And That Is Either The Penultimate Failure Or Our Most Enigmatical Achievement.