Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
As it is with the love of the body, so with the friendship of the mind, the full is only reached by admittance to the most retired places.
Two in distressmake sorrow less.
To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
We all are born mad. Some remain so.