Our Brains Are Seventy-year Clocks. The Angel

You May Have Genius. The Contrary Is, Of Course, Probable.

Insanity Is Often The Logic Of An Accurate Mind Overtasked.

Build Thee More Stately Mansions, O My Soul, As The Swift Seasons Roll! Leave Thy Low-vaulted Past! Let Each New Temple, Nobler Than The Last, Shut Thee From Heaven With A Dome More Vast, Till Thou At Length Art Free, Leaving Thine Outgrown Shell By Life's Unresting Sea!

Our Brains Are Seventy-year Clocks. The Angel Of Life Winds Them Up Once For All, Then Closes The Case, And Gives The Key Into The Hand Of The Angel Of The Resurrection.

What Refuge Is There For The Victim Who Is Oppressed With The Feeling That There Are A Thousand New Books He Ought To Read, While Life Is Only Long Enough For Him To Attempt To Read A Hundred?