“I am proud to be an emotionalist.”

To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life.

The object of the artist is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is another question.

They lived and laughed and loved and left.

His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.

Men are governed by lines of intellect – women: by curves of emotion.

What’s in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours.

Shut your eyes and see.

Wipe your glasses with what you know.

Civilization may be said indeed to be the creation of its outlaws.

A woman loses a charm with every pin she takes out.

Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.

I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.

All fiction is autobiographical fantasy.

And then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will yes.

People trample over flowers, yet only to embrace a cactus.

You can still die when the sun is shining.