He loved the extensive vaults where you could hear the night birds and the sea breeze; he loved the craggy ruins bound together by ivy, those dark halls, and any appearance of death and destruction. Having fallen so far from so high a position, he loved anything that had also fallen from a great height

Writing is a dog's life, but the only life worth living.

There are some men whose only mission among others is to act as intermediaries; one crosses them like bridges and keeps going.

He dreamed of funeral love, but dreams crumble and the tomb abides

I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within.

One never tires of what is well written, style is life! It is the very blood of thought!

I do not like to "interest" the public with myself.