The square root of I is I.

The thought, when written down, becomes less oppressive, but some thoughts are like a cancerous tumor: you express is, you excise it, and it grows back worse than before.

All great novels are great fairy tales.

Remembrance, like Rembrandt, is dark but festive. Remembered ones dress up for the occasion and sit still. Memory is a photo-studio de luxe on an infinite Fifth Power Avenue.

A wise reader reads the book of genius not with his heart, not so much with his brain, but with his spine. It is there that occurs the telltale tingle.

I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art.

Mnemosyne, one must admit, has shown herself to be a very careless girl.