Perhaps already I am dead, And these perhaps are phantoms vain; - These motley phantasies that pass At night through my disordered brain. Perhaps with ancient heathen shapes, Old faded gods, this brain is full; Who, for their most unholy rites, Have chosen a dead poet's skull.

Sleep is good, death is better; but of course, the best thing would to have never been born at all.

It is extremely difficult for a Jew to be converted, for how can he bring himself to believe in the divinity of - another Jew?

Where words cease, there music begins.

I do not know if she was virtuous, but she was ugly, and with a woman that is half the battle.

The foolish race of mankind are swarming below in the night; they shriek and rage and quarrel - and all of them are right.

I live, which is the main point.