Only Poetry Or Madness Could Do Justice

In Relating The Circumstances Which Have Led To My Confinement Within This Refuge For The Demented, I Am Aware That My Present Position Will Create A Natural Doubt Of The Authenticity Of My Narrative.

Disintegration Is Quite Painless, I Assure You.

Slowly But Inexorably Crawling Upon My Consciousness And Rising Above Every Other Impression, Came A Dizzying Fear Of The Unknown; A Fear All The Greater Because I Could Not Analyse It, And Seeming To Concern A Stealthily Approaching Menace; Not Death, But Some Nameless, Unheard-of Thing Inexpressibly More Ghastly And Abhorrent.

So Far As English Versification Is Concerned, Pope Was The World, And All The World Was Pope.

I Am Disillusioned Enough To Know That No Man's Opinion On Any Subject Is Worth A Damn Unless Backed Up With Enough Genuine Information To Make Him Really Know What He's Talking About.