Inspiration is a farce that poets have invented to give themselves importance.
Beauty, real beauty, is something very grave. If there is a God, He must be partly that.
Talent is like a faucet, while it is open, one must write.
A happy love is full of quarrels, you know.
Death is beautiful. It alone gives love its true habitat.
Tragedy is restful: and the reason is that hope, that foul, deceitful thing, has no part in it.