Retirement accords with the tone of my mind; I will not descend to a world I despise.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me.

A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress.

I am ashes where once I was fire.

I stood among them, but not of them: in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

A drop of ink may make a million think.

Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were.