The artist produces for the liberation of his soul. It is his nature to create as it is the nature of water to run down the hill.

Women's hearts are like old china, none the worse for a break or two.

I can only guess that it made the world he went back to...strangely without meaning. Though he lived in it, though he even enjoyed it, it remained utterly remote. I think it had lost sense for him. In his heart was the reflection of a lovely dream that he could never quite recall.

It must be that there is something naturally absurd in a sincere emotion, though why there should be I cannot imagine, unless it is that man, the ephemeral inhabitant of an insignificant planet, with all his pain and all his striving is but a jest in an eternal mind.

Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels that he belongs.

It does the heart good to look at you.

When you're eighteen your emotions are violent, but they're not durable.