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	The wretched Artist himself is alternatively the lowest worm that ever crawled when no fire is in him; or the loftiest God that ever sand when the fire is going.   
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	When the desire is on for one particular person, nobody else will do.   
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	But there is that about well-intentioned advice that has the opposite effect of the one intended, and causes a Spanish fly of perversity to enter into the hitherto passive soul.   
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	Sex divorced from love is the thief of personal dignity.   
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	There is, happily, no limit to the faith of human nature in believing what it wants to believe.   
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	England, where nobody ever says what they mean: and by denying feeling, kill it off stone-cold at the roots.   
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	anybody who drinks seriously is poor: so poor, poor, extra poor, me.   
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	Anybody who thinks there is any vague chance of adult exchange with a child is up the spout; and would be much less disappointed if they recognized the chasm unbridgeably dividing them.   
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	resignation, perhaps the most stifling word in the language.   
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	... the mere thought of going near a man who is not mellowly pickled, and whose breath reeks of his native fleshy self, is squeamishly unpalatable to me.   
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	My bitterness is not an abstract substance, it is as solid as a Christmas cake; I can cut it in slices and hand it round and there is still plenty left, for tomorrow.   
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	none of what I know is out of books. ... I prefer tactual learning. Touching, on the quick of the sore nail, of present, mobile life. To toy, to gnaw, to tear: at the living element of pain. Like at a living drumstick.   
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	Jealousy is the lifelong noose hanging about the neck of love.   
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	There is a brotherliness about a drinking person, which is coldly lacking in the straight and narrow enemies of drink; the difference between the two is more marked than nationality or belief: it is an opposite species altogether. It is against the unwritten laws of congeniality for them to mix. For me, a man who does not drink is distinctly indecent.   
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	I am unable, mentally incapable, of relating the dead thing, the broken body refusing to divulge why or where the occupant has gone, to the thing that was alive.   
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	Fearful as reality is, it is less fearful than evasions of reality. Look steadfastly into the slit, pinpointed malignant eyes of reality as an old-hand trainer dominates his wild beasts.   
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	Love can bear anything better than ridicule.   
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	money ... is only important when you have none; and though it may not be everything, it goes a very long way towards blocking up the winter draft of age.   
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	there is this malign curse laid on dipsomaniacs. That they must absolutely have a drink: in order to feel strong enough to stop drinking.   
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	There is a great gulf between the really creative person and normal people. The totally creative person does not have the rest of his life in proper proportion.   
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	In America they make too much fuss of poets; in London they make too little.   
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	Between threading a needle and raving insanity is the smallest eye in creation.   
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	I don't trust sentimentality in men; it goes with tyranny; you can't have one without the other.   
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	One should never go back to a place one has loved; for, however, rough the going forward is, it is better than the snuffing out-of-love return.   
