A piece of creative writing, like a day-dream, is a continuation of, and a substitute for, what was once the play of childhood.
Only a good-for-nothing is not interested in his past.
Love can not be much younger than the lust for murder.
Beauty has no obvious use; nor is there any clear cultural necessity for it. Yet civilization could not do without it.
Dreams are the royal road to the unconscious.
What is common in all these dreams is obvious. They completely satisfy wishes excited during the day which remain unrealized. They are simply and undisguisedly realizations of wishes.