And she was mine, she was mine, the key was in my fist, my fist was in my pocket, she was mine.

The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.

I was the shadow of the waxwing slain/By the false azure in the windowpane.

The rich philistinism emanating from advertisements is due not to their exaggerating (or inventing) the glory of this or that serviceable article but to suggesting that the acme of human happiness is purchasable and that its purchase somehow ennobles the purchaser.

Nostalgia in reverse, the longing for yet another strange land, grew especially strong in spring.

There is only one school of literature - that of talent.

Old birds like Orlovius are wonderfully easy to lead by the beak, because a combination of decency and sentimentality is exactly equal to being a fool.