Then he will talk--good gods, how he will talk!

The sick in mind, and, perhaps, in body, are rendered more darkly and hopelessly so by the manifold reflection of their disease, mirrored back from all quarters in the deportment of those about them; they are compelled to inhale the poison of their own breath, in infinite repetition.

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

The pomp of death is far more terrible than death itself.

They called me mad, and I called them mad, and damn them, they outvoted me.

When the sun sets, shadows, that showed at noon But small, appear most long and terrible.