pg.9 "In my heart there's a peaceful anguish, and my calm is made of resignation.

All I’ve ever done is dream. That, and only that, has been the meaning of my existence. The only thing I’ve ever really cared about is my inner life. My greatest griefs faded to nothing the moment I opened the window onto my inner self and lost myself in watching. I never tried to be anything other than a dreamer. I never paid any attention to people who told me to go out and live. I belonged always to whatever was far from me and to whatever I could never be. Anything that was not mine, however base, always seemed to be full of poetry. The only thing I ever loved was pure nothingness.

We, all who live, have A life that is lived And another life that is thought, And the only life we have It's the one that is divided In right or wrong.

Ah, it's my longing for whom I might have been that distracts and torments me!

The world belongs to who doesn't feel. The primary condition to be a practical man is the absence of sensitivity.

Whenever someone tells me he dreamed, I wonder if he realizes that he has never done anything but dream.

The unnatural and the strange have a perfume of their own