It is just the literature that we read for 'amusement' or 'purely for pleasure' that may have the greatest$$$ least suspected$$$ earliest influence on us.

I decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be stopped$$$ some of the fragments of the afternoon might be collected$$$ and I concentrated my attention with careful subtlety to this end.

It's strange that words are so inadequate. Yet$$$ like the asthmatic struggling for breath$$$ so the lover must struggle for words.

The majority of mankind is lazy-minded$$$ incurious$$$ absorbed in vanities$$$ and tepid in emotion$$$ and is therefore incapable of either much doubt or much faith.

What might have been is an abstraction<br>Remaining a perpetual possibility<br>Only in a world of speculation.

Though you forget the way to the Temple$$$ there is one who remembers the way to your door: Life you may evade$$$ but Death you shall not. You shall not deny the Stranger.

I that was near your heart was removed therefrom.

However you disguise it$$$ this thing does not change: The perpetual struggle of Good and Evil.

We know too much$$$ and are convinced of too little. Our literature is a substitute for religion$$$ and so is our religion.

Not the intense moment<br>Isolated$$$ with no before and after$$$<br>But a lifetime burning in every moment.