Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

Whatever flames upon the night Man's own resinous heart has fed.

We can only begin to live when we conceive life as Tragedy.

Man has created death.

The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.

I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'

We taste and feel and see the truth. We do not reason ourselves into it.