Nature had kindled in him this fiery ambition only for his woe.
All the passion of the great hungry world seemed concentrated in his sole being.

Images of maddening beauty glowed upon him out of the darkness, glowed and gleamed by he knew not what creative mandate; faces, forms, such as may visit the delirium of a supreme artist.

Of him they knew not; they were worlds away, though his own brain bodied them forth.

He smothered cries of agony; he flung himself upon his face, and lay as one dead.
For the men capable of passionate love (and they are few) to miss love is to miss everything.

Life has but the mockery of consolation for that one gift denied.