A memory is a beautiful thing, it's almost a desire that you miss.

The one way of tolerating existence is to lose oneself in literature as in a perpetual orgy.

For a long time now my heart has had its shutters closed, its steps deserted, formerly a tumultuous hotel, but now empty and echoing like a great empty tomb.

And indeed, what is better than to sit by one's fireside in the evening with a book, while the wind beats against the window and the lamp is buring?

I have dreamed much and have done very little.

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.

I am a man-pen. I feel through the pen, because of the pen.