I am writing a play which I probably will not finish until the end of November. I am writing it with considerable pleasure, though I sin frightfully against the conventions of the stage. It is a comedy with three female parts, six male, four acts, a landscape (view of the lake), lots of talk on literature, little action and tons of love.

There is nothing more vulgar than a petty bourgeois life with its halfpence, its victuals, its futile talk, and its useless conventional virtue.

Oh, dreams! In one night, lying with one's eyes shut, one may sometimes live through more than ten years of happiness.

The illusion which exalts us is dearer to us than ten thousand truths.

If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise don't put it there.

Art, especially the stage, is an area where it is impossible to walk without stumbling. There are in store for you many unsuccessful days and whole unsuccessful seasons: there will be great misunderstandings and deep disappointments… you must be prepared for all this, expect it and nevertheless, stubbornly, fanatically follow your own way.

He who desires nothing, hopes for nothing, and is afraid of nothing, cannot be an artist.