Literature is a toil and a snare, a curse that bites deep.

The upshot was, my paintings must burn that English artists might finally learn.

I love Italian opera - it's so reckless. Damn Wagner, and his bellowings at Fate and death. Damn Debussy, and his averted face. I like the Italians who run all on impulse, and don't care about their immortal souls, and don't worry about the ultimate.

There's always the hyena of morality at the garden gate, and the real wolf at the end of the street.

Can you understand how cruelly I feel the lack of friends who will believe in me a bit?

In every great novel, who is the hero all the time? Not any of the characters, but some unnamed and nameless flame behind them all.

Every man has a mob self and an individual self, in varying proportions.