... I will never love, for I should never be loved as I desire to be loved.

Art just consists in making us swallow the commonplaces by charming us eternally.

What am I? Nothing. What would I be? Everything.

... I will never love, for I should never be loved as I desire to be loved.

Time is the most terrible, the most discouraging, the most unconquerable of all obstacles, and one that may exist when no other does.

When I die my death will be caused by indignation at the stupidity of human nature.

Art consists precisely in making us admire old stories, charming us with them eternally, as Nature charms with her eternal sun, her ancient earth, and her men built all on the same pattern, and all animated by the same feelings.