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

Every profound new movement makes a great swing also backwards to some older, half-forgotten way of consciousness.

Every man has a mob self and an individual self, in varying proportions.

And woman is the same as horses: two wills act in opposition inside her. With one will she wants to subject herself utterly. With the other she wants to bolt, and pitch her rider to perdition.

Whatever men you take, keep the idea of man intact: let your soul wait whether your body does or not.

Now in November nearer comes the sun down the abandoned heaven.

The cosmos is a vast living body, of which we are still parts. The sun is a great heart whose tremors run through our smallest veins. The moon is a great nerve center from which we quiver forever. Who knows the power that Saturn has over us, or Venus? But it is a vital power, rippling exquisitely through us all the time.