I feel crappy inside,like something just broke.
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.
There is a sort of jealousy which needs very little fire; it is hardly a passion, but a blight bred in the cloudy, damp despondency of uneasy egoism.
Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
It is not sufficient to see and to know the beauty of a work. We must feel and be affected by it.
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