Poetry is the disease of the brain.

Poetry is the disease of the brain.

Just as we descend into our consciences to judge of actions which our minds can not weigh, can we not also search in ourselves for the feeling which gives birth to forms of thought, always vague and cloudy?

On the day when man told the story of his life to man, history was born.

Honour is manly decency. The shame of being found wanting in it means everything to us. Is this, then, the indefinable, the sacred thing?

One might almost reckon mathematically that, having undergone the double composition of public opinion and of the author, their history reaches us at third hand and is thus separated by two stages from the original fact.

Do you not see with your own eyes the chrysalis fact assume by degrees the wings of fiction?