Let us not kid ourselves; let us remember that literature is of no use whatever, except in the very special case of somebody's wishing to become, of all things, a Professor of Literature.

Are the days of winter sunshine just as sad for you, too? When it is misty, in the evenings, and I am out walking by myself, it seems to me that the rain is falling through my heart and causing it to crumble into ruins.

We swung between madness and suicide ... it was beautiful!

Love, she thought, must come suddenly, with great outbursts and lightnings,--a hurricane of the skies, which falls upon life, revolutionises it, roots up the will like a leaf, and sweeps the whole heart into the abyss.

Poetry is as precise a thing as geometry.

I love good sense above all, perhaps because I have none.

On spinach: I dislike it, and am happy to dislike it because if I liked it I would eat it, and I cannot stand it.