Yet, mad am I not — and very surely do I not dream.

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.

Man is an animal that diddles, and there is no animal that diddles but man.

Lord help my poor soul.

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"— here I opened wide the door; — Darkness there, and nothing more.

Now this is the point. You fancy me a mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded.

It would be mockery to call such dreariness heaven at all.