Music fathoms the sky.

The habit of doing one's duty drives away fear.

The taste for pleasure attaches us to the present. The concern with our salvation leaves us hanging on the future.

It is one of the prodigious privileges of art that the horrific, artistically expressed, becomes beauty, and that sorrow, given rhythm and cadence, fills the spirit with a calm joy.

A precious liquid, a poison dearer than that of the Borgias - because it is made from our blood, our health, our sleep, and two-thirds of our love - we must be stingy with it.

I am the vampire at my own veins.

Whether you come from heaven or hell, what does it matter, O Beauty!