Unscrew the locks from the doors ! Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs !

And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.

Books are to be called for and supplied on the assumption that the process of reading is not a half-sleep, but in the highest sense an exercise, a gymnastic struggle; that the reader is to do something for himself.

I tramp a perpetual journey.

I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.

Happiness, not in another place but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contained, I stand and look at them long and long.