Not all the monsters have fangs.

Cruelty, as a fine art, has attained its perfect flower in the trained-animal world.

I did not begin when I was born, nor when I was conceived. I have been growing, developing, through incalculable myriads of millenniums... All my previous selves have their voices, echoes, promptings in me... Oh, incalculable times again shall I be born.

There is such a thing as anaesthesia of pain, engendered by pain too exquisite to be borne.

I believe that when I am dead, I am dead. I believe that with my death I am just as much obliterated as the last mosquito you and I squashed.

Pray do not interrupt me," he wrote. "I am smiling.

Then one can't make a living out of poetry? Certainly not. What fool expects to? Out of rhyming, yes.