“The entire world is a collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her.”

It is strange people should be so greedy, when they are alone in the world.

No coward soul is mine.

But you might as well bid a man struggling in the water, rest within arm’s length of the shore! I must reach it first, and then I’ll rest.

How strange! I thought, though everybody hated and despised each other, they could not avoid loving me.

Vain are the thousand creeds That move men’s hearts, unutterably vain; Worthless as withered weeds, Or idlest froth amid the boundless main.

If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.

The winter wind is loud and wild, Come close to me, my darling child; Forsake thy books, and mate less play; And, while the night is gathering grey, We’ll talk its pensive hours away.

I never told my love vocally still.

You’re hard to please: so many friends and so few cares, and can’t make yourself content.

It is for God to punish wicked people; we should learn to forgive.

I’ll be as dirty as I please, and I like to be dirty, and I will be dirty!

What kind of living will it be when you – Oh, God! Would you like to live with your soul in the grave?

Though earth and man were gone, And suns and universes ceased to be, And Thou wert left alone, Every existence would exist in Thee.

I have fled my country and gone to the heather.

I have dreamed in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind.

I will walk where my own nature would be leading.

I had a guitar when I was 6 or 7, a plastic guitar with the Beatles’ faces on it. It would be a collector’s item now. It would fetch a hefty sum, I imagine.

At Age 11, I used to listen to Madonna’s Immaculate Collection every day

When I’m lying in bed I think about the next collection. That makes me sound insane, doesn’t it? That I’m getting into bed with David Beckham and thinking about clothes.

She was only a collection of flaws and she was beautiful.

You are not your bank account, or your ambitiousness. You’re not the cold clay lump with a big belly you leave behind when you die. You’re not your collection of walking personality disorders. You are spirit, you are love.

When a group of people get together, it’s collective power. You know that you’re doing it for the good.

I’m in a business where no one cares about anything except how well your last collection sold.

The “we” of your divine birthright – the one that is aware of its place as part of the collective whole – knows that it is your sacred obligation to shine your brightest light, not just in your moments of glory but each day.