Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.
— Amy Lowell
Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
Youth condemns; maturity condones.
In science, read by preference the newest works. In literature, read the oldest. The classics are always modern.
Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me, and drench me in loneliness.
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
I am tired, beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little ink drops, and posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire of the great moon.
For books are more than books, they are the life, the very heart and core of ages past, the reason why men worked and died, the essence and quintessence of their lives.
Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.
A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
Let us be of cheer, remembering that the misfortunes hardest to bear are those which never come.
All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
Take everything easy and quit dreaming and brooding and you will be well guarded from a thousand evils.
