Is not this the true romantic feeling-not to desire to escape life, but to prevent life from escaping you?

There is something sad and terrifying about big families.

For all that you have done, I am ever mindful. How can you doubt that I ever forgot it-but don't remind me of it too much at this time.

For I believe in harbors at the end.

The golden years of my life are slipping by on stealthy feet at nightfall; there is a footprint in the dark, a bell strikes twelve, and the flying year is gone.

We must try to love one another... The terrible and beautiful sentence, the last, the final wisdom that the earth can give, is remembered at the end, is spoken too late, wearily. It stands there, awful and untraduced, above the dusty racket of our lives. No forgetting, no forgiving, no denying, no explaining, no hating.

I'm sick of praise; I want money.

The great play is yet unwritten; the great novel beats with futile hands against the portals of my brain.

He did not believe in angels with soft faces and bright wings, but he believed in the dark spirits that hovered over the heads of lonely men.

This is the artist, then-life's hungry man, the glutton of eternity, beauty's miser, glory's slave.