Our Age Is Retrospective. It Builds The

Nothing Can Be Colder Than His Head, When The Lightnings Of His Imagination Are Playing In The Sky.

The World Is The Ring Of His Spells, And The Play Of His Miracles.

Thus Inevitably Does The Universe Wear Our Color, And Every Object Fall Successively Into The Subject Itself. The Subject Exists, The Subject Enlarges; All Things Sooner Or Later Fall Into Place. As I Am, So I See; Use What Language We Will, We Can Never Say Anything But What We Are.

We Live In A System Of Approximations. Every End Is Prospective Of Some Other End, Which Is Also Temporary; A Round And Final Success Nowhere. We Are Encamped In Nature, Not Domesticated.

Evermore In The World Is This Marvelous Balance Of Beauty And Disgust, Magnificence And Rats.