Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon’s verge.
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- When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation), sleep, eating and swilling, buttoning and unbuttoning — how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a dormouse.
- Life’s enchanted cup sparkles near the brim.
- It is very certain that the desire of life prolongs it.
- Of all the barbarous middle ages, that which is most barbarous is the middle age of man! it is — I really scarce know what; but when we hover between fool and sage, and don’t know justly what we would be at — a period something like a printed page, black letter upon foolscap, while our hair grows grizzled, and we are not what we were.
- Why I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to inquire — in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?
- As to Don Juan, confess that it is the sublime of that there sort of writing; it may be bawdy, but is it not good English? It may be profligate, but is it not life, is it not the thing? Could any man have written it who has not lived in the world? and tooled in a post-chaise? in a hackney coach? in a Gondola? against a wall? in a court carriage? in a vis a vis? on a table? and under it?