To live, to have so much ambition, to suffer, to cry, to fight and, at the end, forgetfulness ... as if I had never existed.

When one misses an opportunity one is apt to fancy that another will never present itself.

To say that my grief will be eternal would be ridiculous - nothing is eternal.

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

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

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

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