We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.

Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.

Make the visible a little hard to see.

Success as a result of industry is a peasant's ideal.

Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.

How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.

Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.