I ride rough waters, and shall sink with no one to save me.

Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.

I think writing, my writing, is a species of mediumship. I become the person.

Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.

Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange.

I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual

For nothing was simply one thing.