One grows accustomed to being praised, or being blamed, or being advised, but it is unusual to be understood.

Passion does not blind. No. Passion is sanity, and the woman you love, she is the only person you will ever really understand.

When that strange race nears the dust and is condemned as untouchable, then nature remembers the physical perfection that she accomplished elsewhere, and throws out a god-not many, but one here and there, to prove to society how little its categories impress her.

When you come back you will not be you. And I may not be I.

It isn't possible to love and part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.

I'm a holy man minus the holiness.

The crime of suicide lies rather in its disregard for the feelings of those whom we leave behind.