Sometimes a high moon, liquid-brilliant, scudded across a hollow space and took cover under electric, brown-iridescent cloud-edges.
The proper function of the critic is to save the tale from the artist who created it.
Brute force crushes many plants. Yet the plants rise again. The Pyramids will not last a moment compared with the daisy. And before Buddha or Jesus spoke the nightingale sang, and long after the words...
It's a queer thing is a man's soul. It is the whole of him. Which means it is the unknown him, as well as the known. It seems to me just funny, professors and Benjamins fixing the functions of the sou...
She lived a good deal by herself, to herself, working, passing on from day to day, and always thinking, trying to lay hold on life, to grasp it in her own understanding. Her active living was suspende...
This is what I believe: That I am I. That my soul is a dark forest. That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest. That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into...
And besides, look at elder flowers and bluebells-they are a sign that pure creation takes place - even the butterfly.But humanity never gets beyond the caterpillar stage -it rots in the chrysalis, it...
So, after three days of incessant brandy-drinking, he had burned out the youth from his blood, he had achieved this kindled state of oneness with all the world, which is the end of youth's most passio...
I don’t want the corpses of flowers about me.
Oh build your ship of death, oh build it in time and build it lovingly, and put it between the hands of your soul.
Only youth has a taste of immortality.
A little morphine in all the air. It would be wonderfully refreshing for everyone.
The essential American soul is hard, isolate, stoic, and a killer. It has never yet melted.
Man is willing to accept woman as an equal, as a man in skirts, as an angel, a devil, a baby-face, a machine, an instrument, a bosom, a womb, a pair of legs, a servant, an encyclopaedia, an ideal or a...
And in this passion for understanding her soul lay close to his; she had him all to herself. But he must be made abstract first.
The mighty question arises upon us, what is one's own real self? It certainly is not what we think we are and ought to be.
The day of the absolute is over, and we're in for the strange gods once more
If there is no love, what is there? she cried, almost jeering.There is, he said, in a voice of pure abstraction, a final me which is stark and impersonal and beyond responsibility. So there is a final...
What is the knocking?What is the knocking at the door in the night?It is somebody who wants to do us harm.No, no, it is the three strange angels. Admit them, admit them.
Recklessness is almost a man's revenge on his woman.
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