Neither Poetry, Nor Ambition, Nor Love Have

I Must Choose Between Despair And Energy──i Choose The Latter.

Or Thou Might'st Better Listen To The Wind, Whose Language Is To Thee A Barren Noise, Though It Blows Legend-laden Through The Trees.

A Man Should Have The Fine Point Of His Soul Taken Off To Become Fit For This World.

How Beautiful, If Sorrow Had Not Made Sorrow More Beautiful Than Beauty's Self.

I Have An Habitual Feeling Of My Real Life Having Past, And That I Am Leading A Posthumous Existence.