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Sleep demands of us a guilty immunity. There is not one of us who, given an eternal incognito, a thumbprint nowhere set against our souls, would not commit rape, murder and all abominations.
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Destiny and history are untidy.
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Suffering for love is how I have learned practically everything I know, love of grandmother up and on.
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Somewhere beneath her hurried curse, A corpse lies bounding in a hearse; And friends and relatives disperse, And are not stirred.
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I am not a critic; to me criticism is so often nothing more than the eye garrulously denouncing the shape of the peephole that gives access to hidden treasure.
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What is a ruin but time easing itself of endurance?
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A man is whole only when he takes into account his shadow as well as himself - and what is a man's shadow but his upright astonishment?
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Life is not to be told, call it as loud as you like, it will not tell itself.
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After all, it is not where one washes one's neck that counts but where one moistens one's throat.
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The heart of the jealous knows the best and most satisfying love, that of the other's bed, where the rival perfects the lover's imperfections.
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One sees you sitting in the sun Asleep; With the sweeter gifts you had And didn't keep, One grieves that the altars of Your vice lie deep.