Nothing so fretful, so despicable as a Scribbler, see what I am, and what a parcel of Scoundrels I have brought about my ears, and what language I have been obliged to treat them with to deal with them in their own way; — all this comes of Authorship.
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- If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.
- To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.
- In general I do not draw well with literary men — not that I dislike them but I never know what to say to them after I have praised their last publication.
- It is true from early habit, one must make love mechanically as one swims; I was once very fond of both, but now as I never swim unless I tumble into the water, I don’t make love till almost obliged.
- My time has been passed viciously and agreeably; at thirty-one so few years months days hours or minutes remain that Carpe Diem is not enough. I have been obliged to crop even the seconds — for who can trust to tomorrow?
- The dead have been awakened — shall I sleep? The world’s at war with tyrants — shall I crouch? the harvest’s ripe — and shall I pause to reap? I slumber not; the thorn is in my couch; Each day a trumpet soundeth in mine ear, its echo in my heart.