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.

In my view, the novelist has no right to express his opinions on the things of this world. In creating, he must imitate God: do his job and then shut up.

Everything is there: the love of Art.

Boredom, that silent spider, was spinning its web in the darkness in every corner of her heart.

Our ignorance of history causes us to slander our own times. The ordinary person today lives better than a king did a century ago but is ungrateful!

Prose is like hair; it shines with combing.

But some day sooner or later our passion would have cooled - inevitably - it's the way with everything human.