There are two men inside the artist, the poet and the craftsman. One is born a poet. One becomes a craftsman.

The only basis for living is believing in life, loving it, and applying the whole force of one's intellect to know it better.

The thought is a deed. Of all deeds she fertilizes the world most.

Sin ought to be something exquisite, my dear boy.

Perfection is such a nuisance that I often regret having cured myself of using tobacco.

The past was but the cemetery of our illusions: one simply stubbed one's toes on the gravestones.

Did not one spend the first half of one's days in dreams of happiness and the second half in regrets and terrors?