To think is to be sick.

Love becomes the deposit of the heart, analogous in all degrees to the 'findings' in a tomb. As in one will be charted the taken place of the body, the raiment, the utensils necessary to its other life, so in the heart of the lover will be traced, as an indelible shadow, that which he loves.

Time is a great conference planning our end, and youth is only the past putting a leg forward.

This head has risen above its hair in a moment of abandon known only to men who have drawn their feet out of their boots to walk awhile in the corridors of the mind.

To love without criticism is to be betrayed.

You beat the liver out of a goose to get a pâté; you pound the muscles of a man's cardia to get a philosopher.

Destiny and history are untidy.