On the day when a young writer corrects his first proof-sheet he is as proud as a schoolboy who has just got his first dose of pox.

I throw fresh seeds out. Who knows what survives?

What men call love is a very small, restricted, feeble thing compared with this ineffable orgy, this divine prostitution of the soul giving itself entire, all its poetry and all its charity, to the unexpected as it comes along, to the stranger as he passes.

With wine, poetry, or virtue as you choose. But get drunk.

There can be no progress-real, moral prgress-except in the individual and by the individual himself.

On the day when a young writer corrects his first proof-sheet he is as proud as a schoolboy who has just got his first dose of pox.

To say the word Romanticism is to say modern art - that is, intimacy, spirituality, color, aspiration towards the infinite, expressed by every means available to the arts.