I am a cemetery abhorred by the moon, In which long worms crawl like remorse.

The taste for pleasure attaches us to the present. The concern with our salvation leaves us hanging on the future.

You are sitting and smoking; you believe that you are sitting in your pipe, and that your pipe is smoking you; you are exhaling yourself in bluish clouds. You feel just fine in this position, and only one thing gives you worry or concern: how will you ever be able to get out of your pipe?

To handle a language skillfully is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.

Nature... is nothing but the inner voice of self-interest.

The immense appetite we have for biography comes from a deep-seated sense of equality.

If rape or arson, poison or the knife Has wove no pleasing patterns in the stuff Of this drab canvas we accept as life - It is because we are not bold enough!