Love (understood as the desire of good for another) is in fact so unnatural a phenomenon that it can scarcely repeat itself, the soul being unable to become virgin again and not having energy enough to cast itself out again into the ocean of another's soul. |
Love between man and man is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is impossible beacuse there must be sexual intercourse. |
Men are governed by lines of intellect - women: by curves of emotion |
Mistakes are the portals of discovery. |
My words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire |
Night, Night. Tellmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of hitherandthithering waters of the Night! |
No one wanted him; he was outcast from life's feast. |
No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination. |
No, it did lots of other things too. |
Our civilization, bequeathed to us by fierce adventurers, eaters of meat and hunters, is so full of hurry and combat, so busy about many things which perhaps are of no importance, that it cannot but see something feeble in a civilization which smiles as it refuses to make the battlefield the test of excellence. |
Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality. |
Saying that a great genius is mad, while at the same time recognizing his artistic worth, is like saying that he had rheumatism or suffered from diabetes. Madness, in fact, is a medical term that can claim no more notice from the objective critic than he grants the charge of heresy raised by the theologian, or the charge of immorality raised by the police. |
Saying that a great genius is mad, while at the same time recognizing his artistic worth, is like saying that he had rheumatism or suffered from diabetes. Madness, in fact, is a medical term that can claim no more notice from the objective critic than he grants the charge of heresy raised by the theologian, or the charge of immorality raised by the police. |
Shakespeare is the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their balance. |
Sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would ascent to an angelical stature; and, as he attached the fervent nature of his companion more and more closely to him, he heard the strange impersonal voice which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's incurable lonliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own. |