When love turns into dust, money becomes the substitution.
Beauty is an experience, nothing else. It is not a fixed pattern or an arrangement of features. It is something felt, a glow or a communicated sense of fineness.
[Hawthorne''s] pious blame is a chuckle of praise all the while.
The only true aristocracy is that of consciousness.
Sleep seems to hammer out for me the logical conclusions of my vague days, and offer them to me as dreams.
But the effort, the effort! And as the marrow is eaten out of a man's bones and the soul out of his belly, contending with the strange rapacity of savage life, the lower stage of creation, he cannot make the effort any more.