I believe that when I am dead, I am dead. I believe that with my death I am just as much obliterated as the last mosquito you and I squashed.
Having no new companions, nothing remained for him but to read.
So that was the way. No fair play. Once down, that was the end of you.
The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life.
Fear urged him to go back, but growth drove him on.
Not all the monsters have fangs.
The Stone the Builders Rejected.
Where others have hearts, he carries a tumor of rotten principles.
And at the instant he knew, he ceased to know.
I would rather be ashes than dust.
My life shall be free and broad and great, and I will not be the slave to the sense delights which chained my ancient ancestry. I reject the heritage. I break the entail. And who are you to say I am unwise?
Desire is a pain which seeks easement through possession.
It is good that man should accept at face value the cheats of sense and snares of flesh, and through the fogs of sentiency pursue the lures and lies of passion.
Socialism, when the last word is said, is merely a new economic and political system whereby more men can get food to eat.
Pursuit and possession are accompanied by states of consciousness so wide apart that they can never be united.
A good joke will sell quicker than a good poem, and, measured in sweat and blood, will bring better remuneration.
The loneliness of the man is slowly being borne in upon me. There is not a man aboard but hates or fears him, nor is there a man whom he does not despise.
Man is a flux of states of consciousness, a flow of passing thoughts, each thought of self another self, a myriad thoughts, a myriad selves, a continual becoming but never being, a will-of-the-wisp flitting of ghosts in ghostland.
Then one can’t make a living out of poetry? Certainly not. What fool expects to? Out of rhyming, yes.
The word is too weak. There is no word in the language strong enough to describe my feelings.