It is restful, tragedy, because one knows that there is no more lousy hope left. You know you're caught, caught at last like a rat with all the world on its back. And the only thing left to do is shout - not moan, or complain, but yell out at the top of your voice whatever it was you had to say. What you've never said before. What perhaps you don't even know till now.

There will always be a lost dog somewhere that will keep me from being happy.

Life is very nice, but it has no shape. The object of art is actually to give it some and to do it by every artifice possible-truer than the truth.

Inspiration is a farce that poets have invented to give themselves importance.

Are you in earnest? Seize this very minute! Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Only engage, and then the mind grows heated. Begin, and then the work will be completed.

Inspiration? - a hoax fabricated by poets for their self-importance.

Tragedy is restful: and the reason is that hope, that foul, deceitful thing, has no part in it.