It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free.
What the Man-Moth fears most he must do.
The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat.
Why shouldn't we, so generally addicted to the gigantic, at last have some small works of art, some short poems, short pieces of music [...], some intimate, low-voiced, and delicate things in our mostly huge and roaring, glaring world?
Someone loves us all.
The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored.