But what of life whose bitter hungry sea Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night Covers the days which never more return? Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn We lose too soon, and only find delight In withered husks of some dead memory.

I have grown tired of the articulate utterances of men and things. The Mystical in Art, the Mystical in Life, the Mystical in Nature this is what I am looking for. It is absolutely necessary for me to find it somewhere.

He is really not so ugly after all, provided, of course, that one shuts one's eyes, and does not look at him.

If we men married the women we deserved, we should have a very bad time of it.

We who live in prison, and in whose lives there is no event but sorrow, have to measure time by throbs of pain, and the record of bitter moments.

I was very much disappointed in the Atlantic Ocean.

One does not see anything until one sees its beauty.