I like going from one lighted room to another, such is my brain to me; lighted rooms.

My notion's to think of the human beings first and let the abstract ideas take care of themselves.

He smiled the most exquisite smile, veiled by memory, tinged by dreams.

To make ideas effective, we must be able to fire them off. We must put them into action.

And in me too the wave rises. It swells; it arches its back. I am aware once more of a new desire, something rising beneath me like the proud horse whose rider first spurs and then pulls him back. What enemy do we now perceive advancing against us, you whom I ride now, as we stand pawing this stretch of pavement? It is death. Death is the enemy. It is death against whom I ride with my spear couched and my hair flying back like a young man's, like Percival's, when he galloped in India. I strike spurs into my horse. Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!

To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.

He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.