They say the sky is the same everywhere. Travellers, the shipwrecked, exiles, and the dying draw comfort from the thought.

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

Effort ceases. Time flaps on the mast. There we stop; there we stand. Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame

I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words.

Great bodies of people are never responsible for what they do.

There are no teachers, saints, prophets, good people, but the artists.

The melancholy river bears us on. When the moon comes through the trailing willow boughs, I see your face, I hear your voice and the bird singing as we pass the osier bed. What are you whispering? Sorrow, sorrow. Joy, joy. Woven together, like reeds in moonlight.