The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.
The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
I was myself the compass of that sea: I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself; And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book.
I am what is around me.