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.

There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met.

Life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age brings the red flare again.

Is it not certain that the Creator yawns in earthquake and thunder and other popular displays, but toils in rounding the delicate spiral of a shell? -Yeats, The Trembling of the Veil

Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.

Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call.

I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re-birth as something not one's self.