There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.

If I do not write to empty my mind, I go mad.

But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

They never fail who die in a great cause.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,       Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;       ’T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link       Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this, Survives himself, his tomb, and all that’s his.