Deep in each man is the knowledge that something knows of his existence. Something knows, and cannot be fled nor hid from.

Men's memories are uncertain and the past that was differs little from the past that was not.

What he could bear in the waking world he could not by night and he sat awake for fear the dream would return.

I don't know why I started writing. I don't know why anybody does it. Maybe they're bored, or failures at something else.

Your heart's desire is to be told some mystery. The mystery is that there is no mystery.

Pain for the old was no longer a surprise.

They heard somewhere in that tenantless night a bell that tolled and ceased where no bell was and they rode out on the round dais of the earth which alone was dark and no light to it and which carried their figures and bore them up into the swarming stars so that they rode not under but among them and they rode at once jaunty and circumspect, like thieves newly loosed in that dark electric, like young thieves in a glowing orchard, loosely jacketed against the cold and ten thousand worlds for the choosing.