Whatever may be their use in civilized societies, mirrors are essential to all violent and heroic action.

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

No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.

But when the door shuts on us, all that vanishes. The shell-like covering which our souls have excreted to house themselves, to make for themselves a shape distinct from others, is broken, and there is left of all these wrinkles and roughnesses a central oyster of perceptiveness, an enormous eye. How beautiful a street is in winter!

I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)

She fell into a deep pool of sticky water, which eventually closed over her head. She saw nothing and heard nothing but a faint booming sound, which was the sound of the sea rolling over her head. While all her tormentors thought that she was dead, she was not dead, but curled up at the bottom of the sea.