My sun sets to rise again.

Inscribe all human effort with one word, artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!

Less is more.

The grand perhaps! We look on helplessly, there the old misgivings, crooked questions are.

When the fight begins within himself, a man's worth something.

Ignorance is not innocence, but sin.

And gain is gain, however small.

Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.

I give the fight up: let there be an end, a privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God.

A minute's success pays the failure of years.