Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence.

Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors ... on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed.

Indeed, there is an eloquence in true enthusiasm that is not to be doubted.

There is no beauty without some strangeness

I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind.

The world is a great ocean, upon which we encounter more tempestuous storms than calms.

Tell a scoundrel, three or four times a day, that he is the pink of probity, and you make him at least the perfection of "respectability" in good earnest. On the other hand, accuse an honorable man, too petinaciously, of being a villain, and you fill him with a perverse ambition to show you that you are not altogether in the wrong.