Love is. the flower of life, and blossoms unexpectedly and without law, and must be plucked where it is found, and enjoyed for the brief hour of its duration.
The human consciousness is really homogeneous. There is no complete forgetting, even in death.
Men always do leave off really thinking, when the last bit of wild animal dies in them.
Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically.
Having achieved and accomplished love... man... has become himself, his tale is told.
I like to write when I feel spiteful. It is like having a good sneeze.