Why break the heart that never beat from love?
For what use are books to anyone whose days are like a rook's nest with every twig a duty.
I want a lot to eat, I'm going to think today.
Lingering is so very lonely when one lingers all alone.
As I see it, life is an effort to grip before they slip through one's fingers and slide into oblivion, the startling, the ghastly or the blindingly exquisite fish of the imagination before they whip away on the endless current and are lost for ever in oblivion's black ocean.
I was brooding, boy. Than which there is no richer pastime. It muffles one with rotting plumes. It gives forth sullen music. It is the smell of home.