In the creative state a man is taken out of himself.

You do care a little for me, I know... but nothing to speak of, and you don't love me. I was yours once till death if you'd cared to keep me, but I'm someone else's now... and he's mine in a way that shocks you, but why don't you stop being shocked, and attend to your own happiness.

As her time in Florence drew to a close she was only at ease amongst those to whom she felt indifferent.

When love flies it is remembered not as love but as something else.

It comes to this then: there always have been people like me and always will be, and generally they have been persecuted.

Characters must not brood too long. They must not waste time running up and down ladders in their own insides.

Ah, but you see, I didn't want to be fair.