...the floss-silk manes tossed up like the crest of a breaking wave....Light ran and glittered on them. They were obedient...you would have sworn...as the white horses of the wave crests are to pull of the moon.

Sometimes, I think, our impulses come not from the past, but from the future.

Every man carries the seed of his own death, and you will not be more than a man. You will have everything; you cannot have more.

I had always been content to know that there was more in the living world than we could hope to understand.

To remember love after long sleep; to turn again to poetry after a year in the market place, or to youth after resignation to drowsy and stiffening age; to remember what once you thought life could hold, after telling over with muddied and calculating fingers what it has offered; this is music, made after long silence. The soul flexes its wings, and, clumsy as any fledgling, tries the air again

It does not do to neglect the gods of a place, whoever they may be. In the end, they are all one.

I knew that I had turned my world back to cinders, sunk my lovely ship with my own stupid, wicked hands.