I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never without a pocket-handkerchief.

No thinking being lives who, at some luminous point of his life of thought, has not felt himself lost amid the surges of futile efforts at understanding, or believing, that anything exists greater than his own soul.

For years your name never passed my lips, while my soul drank in, with a delirious thirst, all that was uttered in my presence respecting you.

Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts.

I have made no money. I am as poor now as ever I was in my life - except in hope, which is by no means bankable.

I dread the events of the future, not in themselves but in their results.

We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the Many Colored Grass.