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?
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- I by no means rank poetry high in the scale of intelligence –this may look like affectation but it is my real opinion. It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.
- Poetry should only occupy the idle.
- I have a notion that gamblers are as happy as most people, being always excited; women, wine, fame, the table, even ambition, sate now and then, but every turn of the card and cast of the dice keeps the gambler alive — besides one can game ten times longer than one can do any thing else.
- Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon’s verge.
- I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one’s partners in the waltz of this world –not much remembered when the ball is over.
- 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?