I should allow only my heart to have imagination; and for the rest rely on memory, that long drawn sunset of one's personal truth.

Our imagination flies -- we are its shadow on the earth.

Perhaps, somewhere, some day, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.

I have never seen a more lucid, more lonely, better balanced mad mind than mine.

The summer night was starless and stirless, with distant spasms of silent lightning.

Why do those people guess so much and shave so little, and are so disdainful of hearing aids?

And what is death, if not a face at peace - its artistic perfection.