I’m not clear enough in the head to feel anything but varieties of dull anger and arrows of sadness.

Her life-that was the only chance she had-the short season between two silences.

We shall be the mouthpieces of the divine spirit—

Speech is an old torn net, through which the fish escape as one casts it over them.

Like" and "like" and "like"--but what is the thing that lies beneath the semblance of the thing?

I like the unreality of your mind; the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.

For the eye has this strange property: it rests only on beauty.