He who gets nearer the sun is leader, the aristocrat of aristocrats, or he who, like Dostoevsky, gets nearest the moon of our non-being.

To every man who struggles with his own soul in mystery, a book that is a book flowers once, and seeds, and is gone.

Money poisons you when you've got it, and starves you when you haven't.

Far back, far back in our dark soul the horse prances.

Sleep is still most perfect, in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved.

The great pagan world of which Egypt and Greece were the last living termsonce had a vast and perhaps perfect science of itsown, a science in terms of life. In our era this science crumbled into magic and charlatanry. But even wisdom crumbles.

What one does in one's art, that is the breath of one's being. What one does in one's life, that is a bagatelle for the outsiders to fuss about.