Let us beware of common folk, of common sense, of sentiment, of inspiration, and of the obvious.

A book is a garden, a party, a company by the way.

There can be no progress-real, moral prgress-except in the individual and by the individual himself.

My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.

Unable to suppress love, the Church wanted at least to disinfect it, and it created marriage.

Above my cradle loomed the bookcase where/ Latin ashes and the dust of Greece/ mingled with novels, history, and verse/ in one dark Babel. I was folio-high/ when I first heard the voices.

It's the devil who pulls the strings that make us dance