I'm always down for good literature.

Instantly the spirit of hell awoke in me and raged.

I resolved in my future conduct to redeem the past; and I can say with honesty that my resolve was fruitful of some good.

It was in my own person that I was once more tempted to trifle with my conscience; and it was as an ordinary secret sinner that I at last fell before the assaults of temptation.

There comes an end to all things; the most capacious measure is filled at last; and this brief condescension to my evil finally destroyed the balance of my soul. And yet I was not alarmed; the fall seemed natural, like a return to the old days before I had made my discovery.

My reason wavered, but it did not fail me utterly, I have more than once observed that in my second character, my faculties seemed sharpened to a point and my spirits more tensely elastic.

It is useless, and the time awfully fails me, to prolong this description; no one has ever suffered such torments, let that suffice; and yet even to these, habit brought -- no, not alleviation -- but a certain callousness of soul, a certain acquiescence of despair; and my punishment might have gone for years, but for the last calamity which has now befallen, and which has finally severed me from my own face and nature.

I am careless; this is my true hour of death, and what is to follow concerns another than myself. Here, then, as i lay down the pen, and proceed to seal up my confession I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end.