The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways. Six o'clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps The grimy scraps Of withered leaves about your feet And newspapers from vacant lots; The showers beat On broken blinds and chimney-pots, And at the corner of the street A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps. And then the lighting of the lamps.

There is not a more repulsive spectacle than on old man who will not forsake the world, which has already forsaken him.

This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.

We are not here to triumph by fighting, by strata gem, or by resistance, not to fight with beasts as men. We have fought the beast and have conquered. We have only to conquer now, by suffering. This is the easier victory.

Art is the escape from personality.

We must learn to suffer more.

We fight to keep something alive rather than in the expectation that anything will triumph.