I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.

The beauty of the world, which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.

I will go down with my colours flying.

Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself back to the body.

The art of writing has for backbone some fierce attachment to an idea.

Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.

Young women... you are, in my opinion, disgracefully ignorant. You have never made a discovery of any sort of importance. You have never shaken an empire or led an army into battle. The plays by Shakespeare are not by you, and you have never introduced a barbarous race to the blessings of civilization. What is your excuse?