Pierre; or The Ambiguities

The dead, blind wall butts all inquiring heads at last.

For whatever is truly wondrous and fearful in man, never yet was put into words or books.

High spurts the fountain; fierce and foamy the wild jet. The urge has but a single outlet. My love, my baby. No wonder those poor pre-moderns were mad and wicked and miserable.

"All!" replied he: "he spared NOT ONE!" Allow me, my friends, to close my eyes upon the after-scene. Why should I protract a tale which I already begin to feel is too long? Over this scene at least let me pass lightly. Here, indeed, my narrative would be imperfect. All was tempestuous commotion in my heart and in my brain. I hav