Love, Like Fire, Goes Out Without Fuel.

I Have A Congenital Desire To Contradict; My Whole Life Is Merely A Chain Of Sad And Unsuccessful Contradictions To Heart And Mind. When Faced With Enthusiasm, I Am Seized By A Midwinter Freeze, And I Suppose That Frequent Dealings With Sluggish Phlegmatics Would Have Made A Passionate Dreamer.

There Are Two Men In Me--one Lives In The Full Sense Of The Word, The Other Reasons And Passes Judgment On The First. The First Will Perhaps Take Leave Of You And The World Forever In An Hour Now; And The Second . . . The Second?

Afraid Of Decision, I Buried My Finer Feelings In The Depths Of My Heart And They Died There.

My Love Had Grown One With My Soul; It Became Darker, But Did Not Go Out

I Love Enemies, Though Not In The Christian Way. They Amuse Me, Excite My Blood. Being Always On One’s Guard, Catching Every Glance, The Significance Of Every Word, Guessing At Intentions, Frustrating Their Plots, Pretending To Be Tricked, And Suddenly, With A Shove, Upturning The Whole Enormous And Arduously Built Edifice Of Their Cunning And Schemes—that’s What I Call Life.