I [who] am perpetually making notes in the margin of my mind for some final statement.

Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.

For this is the truth about our soul, he thought, who fish-like inhabits deep seas and plies among obscurities threading her way between the boles of giant weeds, over sun-flickered spaces and on and on into gloom, cold, deep, inscrutable; suddenly she shoots to the surface and sports on the wind-wrinkled waves; that is, has a positive need to brush, scrape, kindle herself, gossiping.

Whenever you see a board up with "Trespassers will be prosecuted," trespass at once.

I feel that by writing I am doing what is far more necessary than anything else.

Just in case you ever foolishly forget; I'm never not thinking of you

One of the signs of passing youth is the birth of a sense of fellowship with other human beings as we take our place among them.