I want fame more than I can tell. But more than I want fame I want happiness.

One's thoughts are one's most crucial adventures. Seriously and strongly and intently to contemplate doing murder is everyway more exciting, more romantic, more profoundly tragic than the murder done.

I am not good. I am not virtuous. I am not sympathetic. I am not generous. I am merely and above all a creature of intense passionate feeling. I feel—everything. It is my genius. It burns me like fire.

I am a genius. Then it amused me to keep saying so, but now it does not. I expected to be happy sometime. Now I know I shall never be.

I do not sing nor play, but I adore music, particularly Chopin. I like him because I cannot understand him.

Genius, apart from natural sensitiveness, is prone equally to unreasoning joy and to bitterest morbidness.

The world is like a little marsh filled with mint and white hawthorn.