My essays were buried among the essays upon liberty, eastern tales, and cures for the bite of a mad dog; while Philautos, Philalethes, Philelutheros, and Philanthropos, all wrote better, because they wrote faster, than I.
'Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but disappointed authors, like myself, who praised, deplored, and despised each other.
The satisfaction we found in every celebrated writer's attempts, was inversely as their merits.

I found that no genius in another could please me.

My unfortunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of comfort.

I could neither read nor write with satisfaction; for excellence in another was my aversion, and writing was my trade.
'In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was one day sitting on a bench in St James's park, a young gentleman of distinction, who had been my intimate acquaintance at the university, approached me.

We saluted each other with some hesitation, he almost ashamed of being known to one who made so shabby an appearance, and I afraid of a repulse.