The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.

That ideal reader suffering from an ideal insomnia.

No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.

All Moanday, Tearday, Wailsday, Thumpsday, Frightday, Shatterday.

Human society is the embodiment of changeless laws which the whimsicalities and circumstances of men and women involve and overwrap. The realm of literature is the realm of these accidental manners and humours--a spacious realm; and the true literary artist concerns himself mainly with them.

Life is too short to read a bad book.

What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupifies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it; only swallow it down.