And I fell violently on my face.

Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.

The greater amount of truth is impulsively uttered; thus the greater amount is spoken, not written.

Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts.

the truth is, I am heartily sick of this life & of the nineteenth century in general. (I am convinced that every thing is going wrong.)

Imperceptibly the love of these discords grew upon me as my love of music grew stronger.

Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries