The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought and sold and bartered away.
Many people become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of life. To have ruined one's self over poetry is an honor.
Love is not fashionable anymore; the poets have killed it.
It is only an auctioneer who can equally and impartially admire all schools of art.
Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead?
Nothing is so dangerous as being too modern; one is apt to grow old fashioned quite suddenly.