And your very flesh shall be a great poem.

When I undertake to tell the best, I find I cannot. My tongue is ineffectual on its pivots, My breath will not be obedient to its organs, I become a dumb man.

Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

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

To speak in literature with the perfect rectitude and insouciance of the movements of animals and the unimpeachable of the sentiment of trees in the woods and grass by the roadside is the flawless triumph of art.

I have sometimes thought that the laws ought not to punish those actions of evil which are committed when the senses are steeped in intoxication.

A great city is that which has the greatest men and women.