Love loves to love love.
She would follow, her dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her he was her all in all, the only man in all the world for her for love was the master guide. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free.
Death, a cause of terror to the sinner, is a blessed moment for him who has walked in the right path.
What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupifies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don’t seem to chew it; only swallow it down.
All fiction is autobiographical fantasy.
Deal with him, Hemingway!
To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life.
People trample over flowers, yet only to embrace a cactus.
O cold ! O shivery ! It was your ambrosial beauty. Forget, forgive. Kismet. Let me off this once.
People could put up with being bitten by a wolf but what properly riled them was a bite from a sheep.
What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is my own.
What was after the universe? Nothing. But was there anything round the universe to show where it stopped before the nothing place began?
His heart danced upon her movement like a cork upon a tide.
Love between man and man is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is impossible because there must be sexual intercourse.
My puns are not trivial. They are quadrivial.
Signatures of all things I am here to read.
Let my country die for me.
O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it?
I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it calls itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defense the only arms I allow myself to use – silence, exile, and cunning.
Sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would ascent to an angelical stature; and, as he attached the fervent nature of his companion more and more closely to him, he heard the strange impersonal voice which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul’s incurable lonliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own.