A man must dream a long time in order to act with grandeur, and dreaming is nursed in darkness.

I recognize in thieves, traitors and murderers, in the ruthless and the cunning, a deep beauty - a sunken beauty.

Would Hamlet have felt the delicious fascination of suicide if he hadn't had an audience, and lines to speak?

The despondency that follows makes me feel somewhat like a shipwrecked man who spies a sail, sees himself saved, and suddenly remembers that the lens of his spyglass has a flaw, a blurred spot -- the sail he has seen.

Anyone who hasn't experienced the ecstasy of betrayal knows nothing about ecstasy at all.

What we need is hatred. From it our ideas are born.

Creation is not a light-hearted game. The creator commits to a terrible adventure, which is to take up-on himself all of the dangers that his creatures run.