I could write stories just as rotten.

Am I alive and a reality, or am I but a dream?

I have discovered that the world over, unusual weather prevails at all times of the year.

Fortunate indeed are those in which there is combined a little good and a little bad, a little knowledge of many things outside their own callings, a capacity for love and a capacity for hate, for such as these can look with tolerance upon all, unbiased by the egotism of him whose head is so heavy on one side that all his brains run to that point.

I loved her. I still love her, though I curse her in my sleep, so nearly one are love and hate, the two most powerful and devasting emotions that control man, nations, life.

Even theories must have foundations.

I got this story from someone who had no business in the telling of it.