Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.

For my own part, I have never had a thought which I could not set down in words, with even more distinctness than that with which I conceived it.

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

As a poet and as a mathematician, he would reason well; as a mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at all.

By a route obscure and lonely Haunted by ill angels only, Where an eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule -- From a wild, weird clime that lieth, sublime, Out of SPACE, out of TIME.

Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart - one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such?

Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man.