Reach me a gentian, give me a torch! Let me guide myself with the blue, forked torch of a flower down the darker and darker stairs, where blue is darkened on blueness even where Persephone goes, just now, from the frosted September to the sightless realm where darkness is awake upon the dark.

To every man who struggles with his own soul in mystery, a book that is a book flowers once, and seeds, and is gone.

I'd wipe the machines off the face of the earth again, and end the industrial epoch absolutely, like a black mistake.

We have buried so much of the delicate magic of life.

Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me! A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.

Hate's a growing thing like anything else. It's the inevitable outcome of forcing ideas onto life, of forcing one's deepest instincts; our deepest feelings we force according to certain ideas.

Give up bearing children and bear hope and love and devotion to those already born.