To live at all is miracle enough.

There are times when the air that floats between mortals becomes, in its stillness and silence, as cruel as the edge of a scythe.

Cold love’s the loveliest love of all. So clear, so crisp, so empty. In short, so civilized.

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.

Noon, ripe as thunder and silent as thought, had fled unfingered.

And now, my poor old woman, why are you crying so bitterly? It is autumn. The leaves are falling from the trees like burning tears- the wind howls. Why must you mimic them?

For what use are books to anyone whose days are like a rook's nest with every twig a duty.