A Sweet Child Is The Sweetest Thing

Let Us Live For The Beauty Of Our Own Reality.

What A Place To Be In Is An Old Library! It Seems As Though All The Souls Of All The Writers That Have Bequeathed Their Labours To These Bodleians Were Reposing Here As In Some Dormitory, Or Middle State. I Do Not Want To Handle, To Profane The Leaves, Their Winding-sheets. I Could As Soon Dislodge A Shade. I Seem To Inhale Learning, Walking Amid Their Foliage; And The Odor Of Their Old Moth-scented Coverings Is Fragrant As The First Bloom Of The Sciential Apples Which Grew Amid The Happy Orchard.

When I Am Not Walking, I Am Reading. I Cannot Sit And Think.

Damn The Age. I'll Write For Antiquity.

The Measure Of Choosing Well, Is, Whether A Man Likes And Finds Good In What He Has Chosen.