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History ... is a nightmare from which I am trying to wake.

I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppled masonry, and time one livid final flame.

Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.

Life is the great teacher.

Our souls, shame-wounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more.

Funerals all over the world everywhere every minute. Shovelling them under by the cartload doublequick. Thousands every hour. Too many in the world.

Rather upsets a man's day a funeral does.

Nature abhors a vacuum.

Coming events cast their shadows before.

Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.

Never know whose thoughts you're chewing.

Art has to reveal to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring. The painting of Gustave Moreau is the painting of ideas. The deepest poetry of Shelley, the words of Hamlet bring our mind into contact with the eternal wisdom, Plato's world of ideas. All the rest is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys.

Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.

A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.

Every life is many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves.

Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies.

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.

There's many a true word spoken in jest.

First kiss does the trick. The propitious moment. Something inside them goes pop.

Time's ruins build eternity's mansions.

Desire's wind blasts the thorntree but after it becomes from a bramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time.

We are all born in the same way but we all die in different ways.

There is not past, no future; everything flows in an eternal present.

I laugh at it today, now that I have had all the good of it. Let the bridge blow up, provided I have got my troops across... Nonetheless, that book was a terrible risk. A transparent leaf separates it from madness.

What's yours is mine and what's mine is my own.