Why doesn't the past decently bury itself, instead of sitting waiting to be admired by the present?

... he preferred his own madness, to the regular sanity. He rejoiced in his own madness, he was free. He did not want that old sanity of the world, which was become so repulsive. He rejoiced in the new-found world of his madness. It was so fresh and delicate and so satisfying.

In every great novel, who is the hero all the time? Not any of the characters, but some unnamed and nameless flame behind them all.

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

A woman unsatisfied must have luxuries. But a woman who loves a man would sleep on a board

But better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions.

The mind is "ashamed" of the blood. And the blood is destroyed by the mind, actually. Hence palefaces.