A work of art is never finished. It is merely abandoned.
There are moments when the inner life actually 'pays,' when years of self-scrutiny, conducted for no ulterior motive, are suddenly of practical use.
Truth is a flower in whose neighbourhood others must wither.
The work of art assumes the existence of the perfect spectator, and is indifferent to the fact that no such person exists.
There's never any great risk as long as you have money.
Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its highest. Live in fragments no longer