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Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world.

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And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper. I have an affection for it, for it was the offspring of happy days, when death and grief were but words, which found no true echo in my heart.

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My dreams were all my own; I accounted for them to nobody; they were my refuge when annoyed - my dearest pleasure when free.

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The agony of my feelings allowed me no respite; no incident occurred from which my rage and misery could not extract its food.

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Life is obstinate and clings closest where it is most hated.

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A slavish bondage to parents cramps every faculty of the mind.

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My dreams were at once more fantastic and agreeable than my writings.

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I do not wish women to have power over men; but over themselves.

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Elegance is inferior to virtue.

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But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit what I shall soon cease to be - a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others and intolerable to myself.

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I am very averse to bringing myself forward in print, but as my account will only appear as an appendage to a former production, and as it will be confined to such topics as have connection with my authorship alone, I can hardly accuse myself of a personal intrusion.

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The very winds whispered in soothing accents, and maternal Nature bade me weep no more.

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Teach him to think for himself? Oh, my God, teach him rather to think like other people!

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Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos.

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What terrified me will terrify others; and I need only describe the spectre which had haunted my midnight pillow.

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A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

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When my cats aren't happy, I'm not happy. Not because I care about their mood but because I know they're just sitting there thinking up ways to get even.

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Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.

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Reason respects the differences, and imagination the similitudes of things.

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Tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain.

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