Of all the icy blasts that blow on love, a request for money is the most chilling.

Through small apertures we glimpse abysses whose sombre depths turn us faint. And yet over the whole there hovers an extraordinary tenderness.

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

I go dreaming into the future, where I see nothing, nothing. I have no plans, no idea, no project, and, what is worse, no ambition. Something – the eternal ‘what’s the use?’ – sets its bronze barrier across every avenue that I open up in the realm of hypothesis.

Everything, even herself, was now unbearable to her. She wished that, taking wing like a bird, she could fly somewhere, far away to regions of purity, and there grow young again.

The artist must be in his work as God is in creation, invisible and all-powerful; one must sense him everywhere but never see him.

Concern for morality makes every work of the imagination false and stupid.