“I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.”

I don’t believe in aging. I believe in forever altering one’s aspect to the sun.

Marvelous are the innocent.

Fear no more, says the heart.

She always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.

But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.

I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual.

And yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.

I need not hate any man; he cannot hurt me. I need not flatter any man; he has nothing to give me.

Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.

Arrange whatever pieces come your way.

Consolation for those moments when you can’t tell whether you’re the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.

Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.

Second hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack.

For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.

There is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.

But beauty must be broken daily to remain beautiful.