Art is a passion or it is nothing.
I wish that I was dead. Oh, they'll be sorry then. I hate them and I'll kill myself tomorrow. I want to die. I hate them, hate them. Hate.
The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
You're beautiful this morning," Archer said, stopping before her, kissing her nose. "You're impossibly sweet in my shirt. " That might be but she felt like death. She would gladly make the trade; how blissful it would be to feel impossibly sweet and look like death.
The Universe, so far as we can observe it, is a wonderful and immense engine; its extent, its order, its beauty, its cruelty, makes it alike impressive.
How many things there are concerning which we might well deliberate whether we had better know them.