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

While we live, let us live.

For {she} had adopted the standard of the young: what there was in the moment was everything. And moments followed one another without necessarily belonging to one another.

A little morphine in all the air. It would be wonderfully refreshing for everyone.

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 great home of the soul is the open road.

Go deeper than love, for the soul has greater depths, love is like the grass, but the heart is deep wild rock molten, yet dense and permanent.