She remembered the heroines of novels she had read, and the lyrical legion of those adulterous women began to sing in her memory with sisterly voices that enchanted her. Now she saw herself as one of those amoureuses whom she had so envied: she was becoming, in reality, one of that gallery of fictional figures; the long dream of her youth was coming true.

But an infinity of passions can be contained in a minute, like a crowd in a tiny space.

I tried to discover, in the rumor of forests and waves, words that other men could not hear, and I pricked up my ears to listen to the revelation of their harmony.

Everything is there: the love of Art.

One mustn't always believe that feeling is everything. In the arts, it is nothing without form.

My foregrounds are imaginary, my backgrounds real.

Doubt … is an illness that comes from knowledge and leads to madness.