Love me. Love my umbrella.

What birds were they? (...) He listened to the cries: like the squeak of mice be- hind the wainscot : a shrill twofold note. But the notes were long and shrill and whirring, unlike the cry of vermin, falling a third or a fourth and trilled as the flying beaks clove the air. Their cry was shrill and clear and fine and falling like threads of silken light unwound from whirring spools.

Shakespeare is the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their balance.

Phall if you but will, rise you must: and none so soon either shall the pharce for the nunce come to a setdown secular phoenish.

There is no heresy or no philosophy which is so abhorrent to the church as a human being.

Thought is the thought of thought.

It is as painful perhaps to be awakened from a vision as to be born.