At noon I feel as though I could devour all the elephants of Hindostan, and then pick my teeth with the spire of Strasburg cathedral; in the evening I become so sentimental that I would fain drink up the Milky Way without reflecting how indigestible I should find the little fixed stars, and by night there is the Devil himself broke loose in my head and no mistake.

Out of my great sorrows, I make little songs.

Write . . . write . . . pencil . . . paper.

The years keep coming and going, Men will arise & depart; Only one thing is immortal: The love that is in my heart.

The sea appears all golden. Beneath the sun-lit sky.

I will not say that women have no character; rather, they have a new one every day.

If one has no heart, one cannot write for the masses.