The journey, Not the destination matters.

And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

It's harder to confess the sin that no one believes in Than the crime that everyone can appreciate. For the crime is in relation to the law And the sin is in relation to the sinner.

Dante and Shakespeare divide the world between them. There is no third.

When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smooths her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.

The rats are underneath the piles/ The Jew is underneath the lot.

There is no absolute point of view from which real and ideal can be finally separated and labelled.