The old endless chain of love, tolerance, indifference, aversion and disgust

The loss of my sight was a great fillip. If I could go deaf and dumb I think I might pant on to be a hundred.

Habit is a compromise effected between the individual and his environment, or between the individual and his own organic eccentricities, the guarantee of a dull inviolability, the lightning-conductor of his existence.

Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.

In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.

Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.

You cried for night - it falls. Now cry in darkness.