Why should the composer be more guilty than the poet who warms to fantasy by a strange flame, making an idea that inspires him the subject of his own very different treatment?

I want you for always...days, years, eternities.

No one really understands the grief or joy of another. We always imagine that we are approaching some other, but our lines of travel are actually parallel.

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.

Why does God endow us with compassion?

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

There are eight girls in the house in which I am living, and practically all of them are good looking. You can realize that I am kept busy.