Odors have an altogether peculiar force, in affecting us through association; a force differing essentially from that of objects addressing the touch, the taste, the sight or the hearing.
I have great faith in fools; self-confidence my friends call it.
The true genius shudders at incompleteness – and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be.
I have no faith in human perfectability. I think that human exertion will have no appreciable effect upon humanity. Man is now only more active – not more happy – nor more wise, than he was 6000 years ago.
The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.
That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward.
With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.
It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.
It is the nature of truth in general, as of some ores in particular, to be richest when most superficial.
Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it ‘the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.’ The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of ‘Artist.’
Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
From childhood’s hour I have not been. As others were, I have not seen. As others saw, I could not awaken. My heart to joy at the same tone. And all I loved, I loved alone.
Now this is the point. You fancy me a mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded...
Deep in earth my love is lying And I must weep alone.
Indeed, there is an eloquence in true enthusiasm that is not to be doubted.
There are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction.
I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow.
Every poem should remind the reader that they are going to die.
There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust.
In me didst thou exist-and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself.