Why, oh why must one grow up, why must one inherit this heavy, numbing responsibility of living an undiscovered life? Out of the nothingness and the undifferentiated mass, to make something of herself! But what? In the obscurity and pathlessness to take a direction! But whither? How take even one step? And yet, how stand still? This was torment indeed, to inherit the responsibility of one’s own life.

Poe tried alcohol, and any drug he could lay his hands on. He also tried any human being he could lay his hands on.

You can't insure against the future, except by really believing in the best bit of you, and in the power beyond it.

The American grips himself, at the very sources of his consciousness, in a grip of care: and then, to so much of the rest of life, is indifferent. Whereas, the European hasn't got so much care in him, so he cares much more for life and living.

Try to find your deepest issue in every confusion, and abide by that.

The dead don't die. They look on and help.

The #‎ cosmos is a vast living body, of which we are still parts.