Art Is Merely The Refuge Which The

Sometimes A Man Hits Upon A Place To Which He Mysteriously Feels That He Belongs.

The Essential Element Of Love Is A Belief In Its Own Eternity.

It Is Astonishing How Many Books I Find There Is No Need For Me To Read At All.

Art, Unless It Leads To Right Action, Is No More Than The Opium Of An Intelligentsia.

He Did Not Care If She Was Heartless, Vicious And Vulgar, Stupid And Grasping, He Loved Her. He Would Rather Have Misery With One Than Happiness With The Other.