"For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver."
"By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. 'Tis the waking that kills us. He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life."
"For while directly we say that it [the length of human life] is ages long, we are reminded that it is briefer than the fall of a rose leaf to the ground."
"Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?"
"Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?"
"He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life."