There he stood, in the camouflage of sun and shade, disfigured by them and masked by his own nakedness.

We think not in words but in shadows of words.

I need you, the reader, to imagine us, for we don't really exist if you don't.

The contemplation of beauty, whether it be a uniquely tinted sunset, a radiant face, or a work of art, makes us glance back unwittingly at our personal past and juxtapose ourselves and our inner being with the utterly unattainable beauty revealed to us.

You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.

a man who has decided upon self-destruction is far removed from mundane affairs, and to sit down and write his will would be, at that moment, an act just as absurd as winding up one’s watch, since together with the man, the whole world is destroyed; the last letter is instantly reduced to dust and, with it, all the postmen; and like smoke, vanishes the estate bequeathed to a nonexistent progeny.

The more gifted and talkative one's characters are, the greater the chances of their resembling the author in tone or tint of mind.