“This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.”

Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.

I have imbibed such a love for money that I keep some sequins in a drawer to count, and cry over them once a week.

Tis the perception of the beautiful, A fine extension of the faculties, Platonic, universal, wonderful, Drawn from the stars, and filtered through the skies, Without which life would be extremely dull

A pretty woman is a welcome guest.

Though I love my country, I do not love my countrymen.

I stood among them, but not of them: in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.

If a man proves too clearly and convincingly to himself…that a tiger is an optical illusion–well, he will find out he is wrong.

Absence – that common cure of love.

Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were.

And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music… Speak to me!

If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.

There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.

Adversity is the first path to truth.

The great object of life is Sensation – to feel that we exist – even though in pain – it is this “craving void” which drives us to gaming – to battle – to travel – to intemperate but keenly felt pursuits of every description whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

Woe to those who die in mortal sin!

Things divine are not attainable by mortals who understand sensual things.

Heaven has not learned of my arrival, and my departure will not in the least diminish it beauty and grandeur. I will sleep underground, for us ephemeral mortals, the only eternity is the moment and drinking to the moment is better than weeping for it.

Friendships ought to be immortal, hostilities mortal.

Think not I dread to see my spirit fly, Through the dark gates of fell mortality; Death has no terrors when the life is true; ‘Tis living ill that makes us fear to die.

And no renown can render you well-known: For if you think that fame can lengthen life By mortal famousness immortalized, The day will come that takes your fame as well, And there a second death for you awaits.

When a liberal is abused, he says, ‘Thank God they didn’t beat me.’ When he is beaten, he thanks God they didn’t kill him. When he is killed, he will thank God that his immortal soul has been delivered from its mortal clay.

To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time’s relentless melt.