The better a work is, the more it attracts criticism; it is like the fleas who rush to jump on white linens.

One can be the master of what one does, but never of what one feels.

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 more you approach infinity, the deeper you penetrate terror

But, in her life, nothing was going to happen. Such was the will of God! The future was a dark corridor, and at the far end the door was bolted.

Here is true immorality: ignorance and stupidity; the devil is nothing but this. His name is Legion.

You don’t make art out of good intentions.