...a writer's works, like the water in an artesian well, mount to a height which is in proportion to the depth to which suffering has penetrated his soul.

It is in moments of illness that we are compelled to recognize that we live not alone but chained to a creature of a different kingdom, whole worlds apart, who has no knowledge of us and by whom it is impossible to make ourselves understood: our body.

Less disappointing than life, great works of art do not begin by giving us all their best.

The bonds that unite another person to our self exist only in our mind.

That translucent alabaster of our memories.

A sort of egotistical self-evaluation is unavoidable in those joys in which erudition and art mingle and in which aesthetic pleasure may become more acute, but not remain as pure.

We live not alone but chained to a creature of a different kingdom: our body.