After you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, and so on - have found that none of these finally satisfy, or permanently wear - what remains? Nature remains.

Old age: The estuary that enlarges and spreads itself grandly as it pours into the Great Sea.

We convince by our presence.

I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

An electric chain seems to vibrate, as it were, between our brain and him or her preserved there [in a Daguerreotype] so well by the limner's cunning. Time, space, both are annihilated, and we identify the semblance with the reality.

A woman waits for me, she contains all, nothing is lacking, Yet all were lacking if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the right man were lacking.

But where is what I started for so long ago? And why is it yet unfound?