Bad art is a great deal worse than no art at all.
He would stab his best friend for the sake of writing an epigraph on his tombstone.
There is nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not vibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation.
For he who lives more lives than one more deaths than one must die.
There is something very morbid about modern sympathy with pain.
Who am I to tamper with a masterpiece?