Our claim to our own bodies and our world is our catastrophe.

A tremendous number of people in America work very hard at something that bores them. Even a rich man thinks he has to go down to the office everyday. Not because he likes it but because he can't think of anything else to do.

An unmanly sort of man whose love life seems to have been largely confined to crying in laps and playing mouse.

The sky is darkening like a stain Something is going to fall like rain And it won't be flowers

Far from his illness The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests, The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays; By mourning tongues The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

Pleasure is by no means an infallible critical guide, but it is the least fallible.

Alone, alone, about the dreadful wood / Of conscious evil runs a lost mankind, / Dreading to find its Father.