But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.

We are cut, we are fallen. We are become part of that unfeeling universe that sleeps when we are at our quickest and burns red when we lie asleep.

Consolation for those moments when you can't tell whether you're the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.

Reading [poetry], you know, is rather like opening the door to a horde of rebels who swarm out attacking one in twenty places at once - hit, roused, scraped, bared, swung through the air, so that life seems to flash by; then again blinded, knocked on the head - all of which are agreeable sensations for a reader (since nothing is more dismal than to open the door and get no response).

For women live much more in the past...they attach themselves to places.

It might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.

To read a novel is a difficult and complex art.