Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.

And yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.

For pleasure has no relish unless we share it.

She was like a crinkled poppy; with the desire to drink dry dust.

Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.

One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.

Would there be trees if we didn't see them?