Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall

I want the concentration and the romance, and the worlds all glued together, fused, glowing: have no time to waste any more on prose.

There is no room for the impurities of literature in an essay.

King old ladies assure us that cats are often the best judges of character. A cat will always to to a good man, they say.

My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?

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

I detest the masculine point of view. I am bored by his heroism, virtue, and honour. I think the best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore.