And he beholds the moon; like a rounded fragment of ice filled with motionless light.

I have dreamed much and have done very little.

One day, I shall explode like an artillery shell and all my bits will be found on the writing table.

One can be the master of what one does, but never of what one feels.

She would have liked not to be alive, or to be always asleep.

He dreamed of funeral love, but dreams crumble and the tomb abides

I am a man-pen. I feel through the pen, because of the pen.