Anyone who believes cannot experience miracles. By day one does not see any stars. Anyone who does miracles says: I cannot let goof the earth.

Art is for the artist is only suffering through which he releases himself for further suffering.

Many a book is like a key to unknown chambers within the castle of one’s own self.

I can't feel a thing; All mournful petal storms are dancing inside the very private spring of my head.

Just think how many thoughts a blanket smothers while one lies alone in bed, and how many unhappy dreams it keeps warm.

There they lay, but not in the forgetfulness of the previous night. She was seeking and he was seeking, they raged and contorted their faces and bored their heads into each others bosom in the urgency of seeking something, and their embraces and their tossing limbs did not avail to make them forget, but only reminded them of what they sought

Written kisses don't reach their destination, rather they are drunk on the way by the ghosts.