Our names are labels, plainly printed on the bottled essence of our past behavior.

How many of our daydreams would darken into nightmares if there seemed any danger of their coming true!

An echo of music, a face in the street, the wafer of the new moon, a wanton thought - only in the iridescence of things the vagabond soul is happy.

All my life, as down an abyss without a bottom. I have been pouring van loads of information into that vacancy of oblivion I call my mind.

There are people whose society I find delicious; but when I sit alone and think of them I shudder.

If it's to be, it's up to me.

An improper mind is a perpetual feast.