The sadness of the incomplete, the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art.
When love flies it is remembered not as love but as something else.
The historian records, but the novelist creates.
How few writers can prostitute all their powers!
They cared for no one, they were outside humanity, and death, had it come, would only have continued their pursuit of a retreating horizon.
The work of art assumes the existence of the perfect spectator, and is indifferent to the fact that no such person exists.