One sheds one's sicknesses in books - repeats and presents again one's emotions, to be master of them.

One can no longer live with people: it is too hideous and nauseating. Owners and owned, they are like the two sides of a ghastly disease.

Loud peace propaganda makes war seem imminent.

It is so much more difficult to live with one's body than with one's soul. One's body is so much more exacting: what it won't have it won't have, and nothing can make bitter into sweet.

I shall be glad when you have strangled the invincible respectability that dogs your steps.

The day of the absolute is over, and we're in for the strange gods once more.

There is no such thing as liberty. You only change one sort of domination for another. All we can do is to choose our master.

Don't be on the side of the angels, it's too lowering.

The novel is the highest form of human expression so far attained. Why? Because it is so incapable of the absolute.

California is a queer place in a way, it has turned its back on the world, and looks into the void Pacific. It is absolutely selfish, very empty, but not false, and at least, not full of false effort.

Having achieved and accomplished love... man... has become himself, his tale is told.

God doesn't know things. He is things.

Death is the only pure, beautiful conclusion of a great passion.

Sentimentalism is the working off on yourself of feelings you haven't really got.

We have to hate our immediate predecessors to get free of their authority.

The human being is a most curious creature. He thinks he has got one soul, and he has got dozens.

The proper study of mankind is man in his relation to his deity.

They say geniuses mostly have great mothers. They mostly have sad fates.

The soul is a very perfect judge of her own motions, if your mind doesn't dictate to her.

One never can know the whys and the wherefores of one's passional changes.

Men always do leave off really thinking, when the last bit of wild animal dies in them.

All vital truth contains the memory of all that for which it is not true.

So long as you don't feel life's paltry and a miserable business, the rest doesn't matter, happiness or unhappiness.

Ours is an excessively conscious age. We know so much, we feel so little.

Nothing that comes from the deep, passional soul is bad, or can be bad.

Wherein lies happiness? In that which becks Our ready minds to fellowship divine, A fellowship with essence; till we shine, Full alchemiz’d, and free of space. Behold The clear religion of heaven!

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity...

When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain".

Life is divine Chaos. It's messy, and it's supposed to be that way.

Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them; thou has thy music too.

... for, by all the stars That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars That kept my spirit in are burst - that I Am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!

I love you the more in that I believe you had liked me for my own sake and for nothing else.

For axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses.

Time, that aged nurse, rocked me to patience.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?

I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.

Tall oaks branch charmed by the earnest stars Dream and so dream all night without a stir.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time / I have been half in love with easeful Death...

...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.

Touch has a memory. O say, love, say, What can I do to kill it and be free?

No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.

Real are the dreams of gods, and soothly pass their pleasures in a long immortal dream.

I have had a thousand kisses, for which with my whole soul I thank love—but if you should deny me the thousand and first—‘t would put me to the proof how great a misery I could live through.

Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.

But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!

One of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another

The excellency of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeable evaporate.

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---"On death

And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.