I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.

Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)

Beauty was not everything. Beauty had this penalty — it came too readily, came too completely. It stilled life — froze it.

Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy; bring them together and they tear each other to pieces.

I like the unreality of your mind; the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.

There is a coherence in things, a stability; something... is immune from change and shines out... in the face of the flowing, the fleeting, the spectral, like a ruby.

. . . clumsiness is often mated with a love of solitude.