“There is something truer and more real, than what we can see with the eyes, and touch with the finger.”

Death should take me while I am in the mood.

Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.

Wherever there is a heart and an intellect, the diseases of the physical frame are tinged with the peculiarities of these.

If the truth were to be known, everyone would be wearing a scarlet letter of one form or another.

The book, if you would see anything in it, requires to be read in the clear, brown, twilight atmosphere in which it was written; if opened in the sunshine, it is apt to look exceedingly like a volume of blank pages.

Articulate words are a harsh clamor and dissonance. When man arrives at his highest perfection, he will again be dumb.

A man’s bewilderment is the measure of his wisdom.

Love, whether newly born, or aroused from a deathlike slumber, must always create sunshine, filling the heart so full of radiance, this it overflows upon the outward world.

The calmer thought is not always the right thought, just as the distant view is not always the truest view.

We must not always talk in the market-place of what happens to us in the forest.

A bodily disease which we look upon as whole and entire within itself, may after all, be but a symptom of some ailment in the spiritual part.

Moonlight is sculpture.

I find nothing so singular to life as that everything appears to lose its substance the instant one actually grapples with it.

There is great incongruity in this idea of monuments, since those to whom they are usually dedicated need no such recognition to embalm their memory; and any man who does, is not worthy of one.

A pure hand needs no glove to cover it.

Our most intimate friend is not he to whom we show the worst, but the best of our nature.

And I saw forever in your eyes ‘til the sunset started to dim your light. You told me you’d always hold me tight, but your warmth faded with the bright.

My original appearance disappears just like tears disappear when falling from the eyes. Dried and then lost.

I revise the manuscript till I can’t read it any longer, then I get somebody to type it. Then I revise the typing. Then it’s retyped again. Then there’s a third typing, which is the final one. Nothing should then remain that offends the eye.

The eyes are the gateway to the soul.

Two attributes of a poet, avidity of the eye and the desire to describe that which he sees.

If you try to go for a big two-hour nap, you get groggy. You wanna just nap, like close your eyes a little bit and then just fall asleep for a little bit and then get up. Then be like, okay, I’m up.

Your eyes looking into mine, this is how two eclipses collide.

In just the same way the thousands of successive positions of a runner are contracted into one sole symbolic attitude, which our eye perceives, which art reproduces, and which becomes for everyone the image of a man who runs.