There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes - die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a burden so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave. And thus the essence of all crime is undivulged.

To elevate the soul, poetry is necessary.

...the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long and final scream of despair.

From childhood's hour I have not been. As others were, I have not seen. As others saw, I could not awaken. My heart to joy at the same tone. And all I loved, I loved alone.

If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.

Even for those to whom life and death are equal jests. There are some things that are still held in respect.

Believe only half of what you see and nothing that you hear.