Dreams have only the pigmentation of fact.

When autumn shadows throw their patterns across the land, they are not the images of fragile, dying leaves, not the bared arms of lofty elms, not shadows of a fading summer; but swinging shapes as of books upon a strap, of round and square boxes held under an arm, of hurrying little people heading towards the nearest school.

Too great a sense of identity makes a man feel he can do no wrong. And too little does the same.

Life is painful, nasty and short.. in my case it has only been painful and nasty.

Life, the permission to know death.

The unendurable is the beginning of the curve of joy.

The very condition of Woman is so subject to Hazard, so complex, and so grievous, that to place her at one moment is but to displace her at the next.