Alas, human vices, however horrible one might imagine them to be, contain the proof (were it only in their infinite expansion) of man's longing for the infinite; but it is a longing that often takes the wrong route. It is my belief that the reason behind all culpable excesses lies in this depravation of the sense of the infinite.

A book is a garden, a party, a company by the way.

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

Drink wine, drink poetry, drink virtue.

The beautiful is always bizarre.

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

Inspiration comes of working every day.