The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.

Nothing is more exhilarating than philistine vulgarity.

Oh, let me be mawkish for the nonce! I am so tired of being cynical.

Genius is finding the invisible link between things.

You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of hot poison in your loins and a super-voluptuous flame permanently aglow in your subtle spine (oh, how you have to cringe and hide!), in order to discern at once, by ineffable signs―the slightly feline outline of a cheekbone, the slenderness of a downy limbs, and other indices which despair and shame and tears of tenderness forbid me to tabulate―the little deadly demon among the wholesome children; she stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power.

A writer should have the precision of a poet and the imagination of a scientist.

Perhaps, somewhere, some day, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.