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.

It's an odd thing about this universe that, though we all disagree with each other, we are all of us always in the right.

We should nourish our souls on the dew of Poesy, and manure them as well.

The notion of making money by popular work, and then retiring to do good work, is the most familiar of all the devil's traps for artists.

But why wasn't I born, alas, in an age of Adjectives; why can one no longer write of silver-shedding Tears and moon-tailed Peacocks, of eloquent Death, of the Negro and star-enameled Night?

It is through the cracks in our brains that ecstasy creeps in.

People say that life is the thing, but I prefer reading.