Edgar Rice Burroughs

I had this story from one who had no business to tell it to me, or to any other.

Civilization held nothing like this in its narrow and circumscribed sphere, hemmed in by restrictions and conventionalities.

Today he still goes through the same process, but the garbage isn't sorted so well.

To him they stand as symbols of truth and reality in a world of dreams and shadows.

Thus does the gross fatality of earth exult in its invariable triumphs over the immortal essence which, in this dim sphere of half-development, demands the allegiance of a twelvemonth, only to betray, in the end, hopes very soul.

It is the trick this thieving demon plays to keep his subjects loyal to him, in the belief that their lives are of value to the common cause.

You might say that instinct, intelligence, purity, goodness, are interchangeable terms with no reality behind them—any more, if you please, than illusion, or, if you like, vice, devils.

Only so long as they do not express themselves in doing things, do I subscribe to such doctrines.

He was too intelligent, too deep-down, thoroughbred, to thrive in such environment.

I saw a young man come up in a state of cool impertinence, inquire the price of chickens, decline to pay it for hens and demand the eggs in exchange.

With prompting from hundreds of thousands of people who don't know what they want, the blind of Europe, and about forty-five percent of our own country.

It was like a dream.