Why couldn't the world that concerns us- be a fiction? And if somebody asked, 'but to be a fiction there surely belongs an author?'- couldn't one answer simply: 'Why? Doesn't this "belongs" perhaps belong to the fiction, too?'

What I really want from Music: That it be cheerful and profound like an afternoon in October.

The man who sees little always sees less than there is to see; the man who hears badly always hears something more than there is to hear.

The English are the people of consummate cant.

What do I care about the purring of one who cannot love, like the cat?

You are treading the path to your greatness: no one shall follow you here! Your passage has effaced the path behind you, and above that path stands written: Impossibility.

Alas! There cometh the time when man will no longer give birth to any star. Alas! There cometh the time of the most despicable man, who can no longer despise himself.