Only the artists interest me whose hearts beat in unison with the poignant misery of the world. If you have not felt that, you have not lived. Pity is essential.
The half-hour of crowded anticipation, how fully it pays for the sterile hour that follows!
It is better not to sit on the grass after thirty when sprawling at all is difficult, let alone sprawling gracefully.
What you possess is not what you jingle in the pockets of your memory, but the imaginings with which you fill the spaces of the future.
I do not know at what moment in life, if ever, we realise that we are neither George Sands nor Juliets. Of course, if we are not beautiful, we recognise early that beauty is nothing.
Can one end anything? A chapter, a paragraph, a sentence even? Doesn't everything one has ever done go on living in spite of subsequent events?
