My mouth is full of decayed teeth and my soul of decayed ambitions.

Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration.

If there is any difficulty in what I write, it is because of the material I use. The thought is always simple.

Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?

Tenors get women by the score.

Ulysses He ... saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid flatong flower.

Think you're escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.