Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration in the moist breath of decay.
Woman's reason is in the milk of her breasts.
George Eliot has the heart of Sappho; but the face, with the long proboscis, the protruding teeth of the Apocalyptic horse, betrayed animality.
The future not being born, my friend, we will abstain from baptizing it.
The debts we owe ourselves are the hardest to pay.
The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.