I'm only twenty-five. If I've made a mistake I have time to correct it.

He found that it was easy to make a heroic gesture, but hard to abide by its results.

Perhaps some deep-rooted atavism urges the wanderer back to lands which his ancestors left in the dim beginnings of history. Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels that he belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar to him from his birth. Here at last he finds rest.

She alone had been blind to his merit. Why? Because he loved her and she did not love him. What was it in the human heart that made you despise a man because he loved you?

When things are at their worst, I find something always happens.

With the superciliousness of extreme youth, I put thirty-five as the utmost limit at which a man might fall in love without making a fool of himself.

The artist can within limits make what he likes of his life... It is only the artist, and maybe the criminal, who can make his own.