[b]Edgar Allan Poe
The ninety and nine are with dreams, content, but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.[/b]
For better or for worse? Definitely.
Mysteries force a man to think, and so injure his health.
Among others, he’s talking about me.
Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made.
Care to broach a few of your own?
Villains! I shrieked. Dissemble no more! I admit the deed! Tear up the planks! Here, here! It is the beating of his hideous heart!
Me, I’m taking the deed to the grave.
When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect — they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soul — not of intellect, or of heart.
Though still no less in the soul of the beholder.
The idea of God, infinity, or spirit stands for the possible attempt at an impossible conception.
You’d think any child would know that.