As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of 'dead! dead!' absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from the lips of the suf...
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Sleep, those little slices of death, how I loathe them.
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Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul. The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of Artist.
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I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity
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To be thoroughly conversant with a man's heart, is to take our final lesson in the iron-clasped volume of despair.
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