To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
The only sin is the sin of being born.
Love requited is a short circuit.
There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
But I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows.
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.