The author, in his work, must be like God in the Universe, present everywhere and visible nowhere.

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

Everything one invents is true, you may be perfectly sure of that. Poetry is as precise as geometry.

For some men, the stronger their desire, the more difficult it is for them to act.

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

I have patience in all things - as far as the antechamber.

You forget everything. The hours slip by. You travel in your chair through centuries you seem seem to see before you, your thoughts are caught up in the story, dallying with the details or following the course of the plot, you enter into characters, so that it seems as if it were your own heart beating beneath their costumes.