I am of a healthy long lived race, and our minds improve with age.

My wretched dragon is perplexed.

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.

By logic and reason we die hourly; by imagination we live.

I have known more men destroyed by the desire to have wife and child and to keep them in comfort than I have seen destroyed by drink and harlots.

My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.

Consume my heart away, sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is, and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.