Having achieved and accomplished love, then the man passes into the unknown. He has become himself, his tale is told.

We are so conceited and so unproud.

Poe tried alcohol, and any drug he could lay his hands on. He also tried any human being he could lay his hands on.

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.

If you cut a thing up, of course it will smell. Hence, nothing raises such an infernal stink at last, as human psychology.

Gods die with men who have conceived them. But the god-stuff roars eternally, like the sea, with too vast a sound to be heard.

Most men have a deadness in them that frightens me so because of my own deadness. Why can't men get their life straight, like St.Mawr, and then think? Why can't they think quick, mother: quick as a woman: only farther than we do?