What wretched poverty of language! To compare stars to diamonds!

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.

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

Love is a springtime plant that perfumes everything with its hope, even the ruins to which it clings.

As you get older, the heart shed its leaves like a tree. You cannot hold out against certain winds. Each day tears away a few more leaves; and then there are the storms that break off several branches at one go. And while nature’s greenery grows back again in the spring, that of the heart never grows back.

Art is nothing without form.

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