Sleep seems to hammer out for me the logical conclusions of my vague days, and offer them to me as dreams.

He knew that conscience was chiefly fear of society or fear of oneself.

Nobody can have the soul of me. My mother has had, and nobody can have it again. Nobody can come into my very self again, and breathe me like an atmosphere.

You love me so much, you want to put me in your pocket. And I should die there smothered.

This is the very worst wickedness, that we refuse to acknowledge the passionate evil that is in us. This makes us secret and rotten.

I never know when I sit down, just what I am going to write. I make no plan; it just comes, and I don't know where it comes from.

The weakness of modern tragedy[is that] transgression against the social code is made to bring destruction, as though the social code worked our irrevocable fate.