Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made.

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

We gave the Future to the winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present, weaving the dull world around us into dreams.

Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.

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

Invisible things are the only realities.

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