Love has as few problems as a motor car. The only problems are the driver, the passengers, and the road.

The person I am in the company of my sisters has been entirely different from the person I am in the company of other people. Fearless, powerful, surprising, moved as I otherwise am only when I write.

The dream reveals the reality which conception lags behind. That is the horror of life-the terror of art.

In the fight between you and the world, back the world.

Life is merely terrible; I feel it as few others do. Often — and in my inmost self perhaps all the time — I doubt whether I am a human being.

Was he an animal, that music could move him so? He felt as if the way to the unknown nourishment he longed for were coming to light.

Everything you say is boring and incomprehensible, but that alone doesn't make it true.