I confess I seldom commune with my conscience when I write.

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.

It is depressing to hear the unfortunate or dying man jest.

The world perishes not from bandits and fires, but from hatred, hostility, and all these petty squabbles.

Critics are like horse-flies which hinder the horses in their plowing of the soil. The horse works, all its muscles drawn tight like the strings on a double-bass, and a fly settles on his flanks and tickles and buzzes. And what does the fly buzz about? It scarcely knows itself; simply because it is restless and wants to proclaim: 'Look, I too am living on the earth. See, I can buzz, too, buzz about anything.'

People's destinies are so different. Some people drag along, unnoticed and boring—they're all alike, and they're all unhappy. Then there are others, like for instance you—you're one in a million. You're happy—

Only during hard times do people come to understand how difficult it is to be master of their feelings and thoughts.