The world resembles a stage on which every man is playing a part.

When I wished to sing of love, it turned to sorrow. And when I wished to sing of sorrow, it was transformed for me into love.

No one feels another's grief, no one understands another's joy. People imagine they can reach one another. In reality they only pass each other by.

The manager is to be blamed who distributes parts to his players which they are unable to act.

No one feels another's grief.

I try to decorate my imagination as much as I can.

There are two contrary impulses which govern this man's brain-the one sane, and the other eccentric. They alternate at regular intervals.