I cannot bear that you / Should think me faithful, when I am untrue.

For the last 40 years of my life I have broken my back, my fingernails, and sometimes my heart, in the practical pursuit of my favourite occupation.

Flowers really do intoxicate me.

I worshipped dead men for their strength, Forgetting I was strong.

It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop.

It is dreadful how I miss you, and everything that everybody says seems flat and stupid.

What is beautiful is good, and who is good will soon be beautiful.