It is a curious thing how poets tend to become ascetics.... Even a debauch for them is a self-flagellation. They go on the loose in cruelty against themselves, admitting that they are pandering to, and despising, the lower self.

The Spanish wine, my God, it is foul, catpiss is champagne compared, this is the sulphurous urination of some aged horse.

Money poisons you when you've got it, and starves you when you haven't.

In the dust where we have buried the silent races and their abominations we have buried so much of the delicate magic of life.

It's terrible, once you've got a man into your blood!" she said.

Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite, exquisite and melting her all molten inside.

Sing then the core of dark and absolute oblivion where the soul at last is lost in utter peace.