Read your own obituary notice; they say you live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.

The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.

I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppled masonry, and time one livid final flame.

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.

In the name of Annah the Allmaziful, the Everliving, the Bringer of Plurabilities, haloed be her eve, her singtime sung, her rill be run, unhemmed as it is uneven!

I am quite content to go down to posterity as a scissors and paste man for that seems to me a harsh but not unjust description

I care not if I live but a day and a night, so long as my deeds live after me.