'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.

The mind can make substance, and people planets of its own with beings brighter than have been, and give a breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.

If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. . . I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure.

If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.

What an antithetical mind! -- tenderness, roughness -- delicacy, coarseness -- sentiment, sensuality -- soaring and groveling, dirt and deity -- all mixed up in that one compound of inspired clay!

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, / And fevers into false creation.