Lord, heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laughters low.

Like the tender fires of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew of or would ever know of, broke upon and illuminated his memory.

White pudding and eggs and sausages and cups of tea! How simple and beautiful was life after all!

God made food; the devil the cooks.

The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole Life to reading my works.

What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupifies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it; only swallow it down.

Michael Robartes remembers forgotten beauty and, when his arms wrap her round, he presses in his arms the loveliness which has long faded from the world. Not this. Not at all. I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.