The Moon! Artemis! the great goddess of the splendid past of men! Are you going to tell me she is a dead lump?

And this is the final meaning of work: the extension of human consciousness. The lesser meaning of work is the achieving of self-preservation.

One never can know the whys and the wherefores of one's passional changes.

Those that go searching for love only make manifest their own lovelessness, and the loveless never find love, only the loving find love, and they never have to seek for it.

Most men have a deadness in them that frightens me so because of my own deadness. Why can't men get their life straight, like St.Mawr, and then think? Why can't they think quick, mother: quick as a woman: only farther than we do?

Love is never a fulfillment. Life is never a thing of continuous bliss. There is no paradise. Fight and laugh and feel bitter and feel bliss: and fight again. Fight, fight. That is life.

One can no longer live with people: it is too hideous and nauseating. Owners and owned, they are like the two sides of a ghastly disease.