The good author is he who contemplates without marked joy or excessive sorrow the adventures of his soul amongst criticisms.

I have been called romantic. Well, that can't be helped. But stay. I seem to remember that I have been called a realist also. And as that charge too can be made out, let us try to live up to it, at whatever cost, for a change.

In plucking the fruit of memory one runs the risk of spoiling its bloom, especially if it has got to be carried into the market.

Joy and sorrow in this world pass into each other, mingling their forms and their murmurs in the twilight of life as mysterious as an overshadowed ocean, while the dazzling brightness of supreme hopes lies far off, fascinating and still, on the distant edge of the horizon

It echoed loudly within him because he was hollow at the core.

Criticism, that fine flower of personal expression in the garden of letters.

Who knows what true loneliness is - not the conventional word but the naked terror? To the lonely themselves it wears a mask. The most miserable outcast hugs some memory or some illusion.