I'm terrified of passive acquiescence. I live in intensity.

First a warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable. The leaden circles dissolved in the air.

It is as if Emily Brontë could tear up all that we know human beings by, and fill these unrecognizable transparencies with such a gust of life that they transcend reality.

How much better is silence; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.

Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.

I want to write a novel about Silence," he said; “the things people don’t say.

Incessant company is as bad as solitary confinement.