By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. 'Tis the waking that kills us. He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.

I find that when I've seen a certain number of people my mind becomes like an old match box -- the part one strikes on, I mean.

How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?

I need not hate any man; he cannot hurt me. I need not flatter any man; he has nothing to give me.

The intellect, divine as it is, and all worshipful, has a habit of lodging in the most seedy of carcasses, and often, alas, acts the cannibal among the other faculties so that often, where the Mind is biggest, the Heart, the Senses, Magnanimity, Charity, Tolerance, Kindliness, and the rest of them scarcely have room to breathe.

Romantic Love is only an Illusion. A story one makes up in One's Mind about Another Person.

For now she need not think of anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone.