No task is a long one but the task on which one dare not start. It becomes a nightmare.

In certain almost supernatural states of the soul, the profundity of life reveals itself entirely in the spectacle, however ordinary it may be, before one's eyes. It becomes its symbol.

And over your unconsecrated head you'll hear the howling wolves lament their fate and yours the livelong year.

If the poet has pursued a moral objective, he has diminished his poetic force.

To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.

He possessed the logic of all good intentions and a knowledge of all the tricks of his trade, and yet he never succeeded at anything, because he believed too much in the impossible. Surprising? Why so? He was forever in the act of conceiving it!

Any man who does not accept the conditions of life sells his soul.