He is cured by faith who is sick of fate. - James Joyce

You find my words dark. Darkness is in our souls, do you not think?

Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality. It speaks of what seems fantastic and unreal to those who have lost the simple intuitions which are the test of reality; and, as it is often found at war with its age, so it makes no account of history, which is fabled by the daughters of memory.

Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory.