All mirrors are magical mirrors, and we never see our faces in them.

What things there are to write, if one could only write them! My mind is full of gleaming thought; gay moods and mysterious, moth-like meditations hover in my imagination, fanning their painted wings. But always the rarest, those streaked with azure and the deepest crimson, flutter away beyond my reach.

If they lost the incredible conviction that they can change their wives or husbands, marriage would collapse at once.

One can be bored until boredom becomes a mystical experience.

All my life, as down an abyss without a bottom. I have been pouring van loads of information into that vacancy of oblivion I call my mind.

Self-respecting people do not care to peep at their reflections in unexpected mirrors, or to see themselves as others see them.

I find a fascination, like the fascination for the moth of a star, in those who hold aloof and disdain me.