I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart againstThe want of you;Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,And posting it.
You are ice and fire The touch of you burns my hands like snow
For books are more than books, they are the lifeThe very heart and core of ages past,The reason why men lived and worked and died,The essence and quintessence of their lives.
A black cat among roses,phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon,the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still.It is dazed with moonlight,contented with perfume…
All books are either dreams or swords,You can cut, or you can drug, with words.
Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.
Happiness to some is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
Take everything easy and quit dreaming and brooding and you will be well guarded from a thousand evils.
Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.
Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me, and drench me in loneliness.
I am tired, beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little ink drops, and posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire of the great moon.