Writing is busy idleness.
Hope is the second soul of the unhappy.
Publishers are all cohorts of the devil; there must be a special hell for them somewhere.
When you praise someone you call yourself his equal.
There is nothing outside of us that is not at the same time in us, and as the external world has its colors the eye, too, has colors.
We all walk in mysteries. We are surrounded by an atmosphere about which we still know nothing at all.