The studious silence of the library ... Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness.

When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street.

You get a decent do at the Brazen Head

The studious silence of the library ... Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness.

A woman loses a charm with every pin she takes out.

You cannot eat your cake and have it.

Love (understood as the desire of good for another) is in fact so unnatural a phenomenon that it can scarcely repeat itself the soul being unable to become virgin again and not having energy enough to cast itself out again into the ocean of another s soul.