As for work, without it, without painstaking work, any writer or artist definitely remains a dilettante; there's no point in waiting for so-called blissful moments, for inspiration; if it comes, so much the better--but you keep working anyway.

I only know that I feel tired, antiquated; I feel as though I had been living a long, long time.

I was afraid of looking into my heart...afraid of thinking seriously about anything...I did not want to know whether I was loved, and I did not want to admit to myself that I was not loved.

Belonging to oneself--the whole essence of life lies in that.

What's important is that twice two is four and all the rest's nonsense.

I share no man's opinions; I have my own.

I agree with no one's opinion. I have some of my own.