You have not known what you are - you have slumber'd upon yourself all your life; Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time; What you have done returns already in mockeries; Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their return? The mockeries are not you; Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk.

We convince by our presence.

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud.

The real war will never get in the books.

To the real artist in humanity, what are called bad manners are often the most picturesque and significant of all.

Be curious, not judgmental.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me, And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.