For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.
Time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.
I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.
He was a man of his times. with one virtue and a thousand crimes. (The Corsair)
In solitude, where we are least alone.
What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought.