Time, which grays hair and wrinkles faces, also withers violent affections, and much more quickly.

And as well as I dream, I reason if I want, for that's just another kind of dream.

I've reached the point where tedium is a person, the incarnate fiction of my own company.

We worship perfection because we can't have it; if we had it, we would reject it. Perfection is inhuman, because humanity is imperfect.

Why is art beautiful? Because it's useless. Why is life ugly? Because it's all ends and purposes and intentions.

The chill of what I won't feel gnaws at my present heart.

Everything is theater.