As an experience, madness is terrific ... and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about.

But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.

This is not writing at all. Indeed, I could say that Shakespeare surpasses literature altogether, if I knew what I meant.

That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.

Only longing can fill with more of itself.

The chief glory of a woman is not to be talked of, said Pericles, himself a much-talked-of-man.

What does the brain matter compared with the heart?