I really cannot know whether I am or am not the Genius you are pleased to call me, but I am very willing to put up with the mistake, if it be one.
Books, Manuals, Directives, Regulations. The geometries that circumscribe your working life draw norrower and norrower until nothing fits inside them anymore.
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.
So the struck eagle, stretch’d upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View’d his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing’d the shaft that quiver’d in his heart.
Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.
History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page.
We of the craft are all crazy.
There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.
Damn description, it is always disgusting.
Who then will explain the explanation?
Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
Of religion I know nothing – at least, in its favor.
We have fools in all sects, and impostors in most; why should I believe mysteries no one can understand, because written by men who chose to mistake madness for inspiration and style themselves Evangelicals?
How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm! I thank thee, night! for thou has chased away these horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, I could not dissipate; and with the blessing of thy benign and quiet influence now will I to my couch, although to rest is almost wronging such a night as this.
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast.
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.
I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library.
I suppose we shall soon travel by air-vessels; make air instead of sea voyages; and at length find our way to the moon, in spite of the want of atmosphere.
Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!
But there are wanderers o’er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor’d ne’er shall be.