The sensitiveness claimed by neurotic is matched by their egotism: they cannot abide the flaunting by others of the sufferings to which they pay an even increasing amount of attention in themselves.

A work should convey its entire meaning by itself, imposing it on the spectator even before he knows what the subject is.

Love is space and time measured by the heart.

The memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment.

Our intonations contain our philosophy of life, what each of us is constantly telling himself about things.

Love is an incurable malady like those pathetic states in which rheumatism affords the sufferer a brief respite only to be replaced by epileptiform headaches.

We exist only by virtue of what we possess, we possess only what is really present to us, and many of our memories, our moods, our ideas sail away on a voyage of their own until they are lost to sight! Then we can no longer take them into account in the total which is our personality. But they know of secret paths by which to return to us.