Their quarrel was no more surprising than are most quarrels — inevitable at the time, incredible afterwards.
A work of art is never finished. It is merely abandoned.
The sadness of the incomplete, the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art.
Reverence is fatal to literature.
One is certain of nothing but the truth of one's own emotions.
There are moments when the inner life actually 'pays,' when years of self-scrutiny, conducted for no ulterior motive, are suddenly of practical use.