It is as if Emily Brontë could tear up all that we know human beings by, and fill these unrecognizable transparencies with such a gust of life that they transcend reality.

Fear no more, says the heart.

Romantic Love is only an Illusion. A story one makes up in One's Mind about Another Person.

There was no freedom in life, and certainly there was none in death.

To put it in a nutshell, he was afflicted with a love of literature. It was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality.

You cannot cross the narrow bridge of art carrying all its tools in your hands. Some you must leave behind.

The history of men's opposition to women's emancipation is more interesting perhaps than the story of that emancipation itself.