My dear Tom, Delighted to get your letter. Do write again. This life is terrible and I don't understand how it can be endured.
Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was but that I was, forgot to be.
Dying for dark — and the darker the Worse. Strange.
What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.
What are we doing here, that is the question.