Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead?

It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one's worship into words.

Dear little Swallow,’ said the Prince, ‘you tell me of marvelous things, but more marvelous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery.

It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.

What is abnormal in Life stands in normal relations to Art. It is the only thing in Life that stands in normal relations to Art.

What art seeks to disturb is monotony of type, slavery of custom, tyranny of habit, and the reduction of man to the level of a machine.

It is a much cleverer thing to talk nonsense than to listen to it.