“Blood was its Avatar and its seal.”

From childhood’s hour I have not been. As others were, I have not seen. As others saw, I could not awaken. My heart to joy at the same tone. And all I loved, I loved alone.

The world is a great ocean, upon which we encounter more tempestuous storms than calms.

Even in the grave, all is not lost.

There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told.

I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect – in terror.

A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it.

It is a happiness to wonder; it is a happiness to dream.

And all I loved, I loved alone.

Every poem should remind the reader that they are going to die.

Sleep, those little slices of death – how I loathe them.

Now this is the point. You fancy me a mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded.

Those who gossip with you will gossip about you.

When a madman appears thoroughly sane, indeed, it is high time to put him in a straight jacket.

Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.

If a man deceives me once, shame on him; if he deceives me twice, shame on me.

The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.

I truly have a great love for an audience, and I used to want to prove it to them by giving them blood.

To heal is to be constantly reminded that once you learn to punch, you die with blood on your wrist.

The inspired and expired air may be sometimes very useful, by condensing and cooling the blood that passeth through the lungs; I hold that the depuration of the blood in that passage, is not only one of the ordinary, but one of the principal uses of respiration.

I have often endeavoured to view the circulation of the blood in terrestrial animals, but without success, by reason that no parts of their bodies were sufficiently transparent.

I have divers times endeavoured to see and to know, what parts the Blood consists of; and at length I have observ’d, taking some Blood out of my own hand, that it consists of small round globuls driven through a Crystalline humidity or water.

It was as though our love were a small creature caught in a trap and bleeding to death: I had to shut my eyes and wring its neck.

When mighty roast beef was the Englishman’s food It ennobled our hearts and enriched our blood– Our soldiers were brave and our courtiers were good. Oh! the roast beef of England. And Old England’s roast beef.

Blood is the god of war’s rich livery.