Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.
For books are more than books, they are the life, the very heart and core of ages past, the reason why men lived and worked and died, the essence and quintessence of their lives.
All books are either dreams or swords,You can cut, or you can drug, with words.
Let us be of cheer, remembering that the misfortunes hardest to bear are those which never come.
Take everything easy and quit dreaming and brooding and you will be well guarded from a thousand evils.
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
In science, read by preference the newest works. In literature, read the oldest. The classics are always modern.
Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.
Youth condemns; maturity condones
Even Pain pricks to livelier living.
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.
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.
All books are either dreams or swords.
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...