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.

Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.

The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

The labor of the alchemists, who were called artist in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style.

I have found nothing half so good / As my long-planned half solitude, / Where I can sit up half the night / With some friend that has the wit.

If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.

Like a long-legged fly upon the stream / His mind moves upon silence.