A beast can never be as cruel as a human being, so artistically, so picturesquely cruel.

In the realist, faith is not born from miracles, but miracles from faith.

An artist must know the reality he is depicting in its minutest detail. In my opinion we have only one shining example of that - Count Leo Tolstoy.

Man is sometimes extraordinarily, passionately, in love with suffering.

Can a man of perception respect himself at all?

Killing myself was a matter of such indifference to me that I felt like waiting for a moment when it would make some difference.

Can a man possessing conciousness ever really respect himself?