I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.

Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.

Do we mean love, when we say love?

I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.

Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.

Where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.

We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?

All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.

It is right that he too should have his little chronicle, his memories, his reason, and be able to recognize the good in the bad, the bad in the worst, and so grow gently old down all the unchanging days, and die one day like any other day, only shorter.

Just under the surface I shall be, all together at first, then separate and drift, through all the earth and perhaps in the end through a cliff into the sea, something of me. A ton of worms in an acre, that is a wonderful thought, a ton of worms, I believe it.

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.

Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.

Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.

Let me go to hell, that's all I ask, and go on cursing them there, and them look down and hear me, that might take some of the shine off their bliss.

Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.

I can't go on. I'll go on.

We are all born mad. Some remain so.

Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.

There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.