It was as if thousands and thousands of little roots and threads of consciousness in him and her had grown together into a tangled mass, till they could crowd no more, and the plant was dying. Now quietly, subtly, she was unravelling the tangle of his consciousness and hers, breaking the threads gently, one by one, with patience and impatience to get clear.

Tragedy is like strong acid - it dissolves away all but the very gold of truth.

Sleep is still most perfect, in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved.

For whereas the mind works in possibilities, the intuitions work in actualities, and what you intuitively desire, that is possible to you. Whereas what you mentally or "consciously" desire is nine times out of ten impossible; hitch your wagon to a star, or you will just stay where you are.

You have to have something vicious in you to be a creative writersomething old-adamish, incompatible to the "ordinary world.

The modern pantheist not only sees the god in everything, he takes photographs of it.

Can you understand how cruelly I feel the lack of friends who will believe in me a bit?