[on Paris:] A City Never Entirely Known,

It Is Easy To Love And There Are So Many Ways To Do It.

There Is An Ugliness In Being Paid For Work One Does Not Like.

I Only Regret That Everybody Wants To Deprive Me Of The Journal, Which Is The Only Steadfast Friend I Have, The Only One Which Makes My Life Bearable, Because My Happiness With Human Beings Is So Precarious, My Confiding Moods Rare, And The Least Sign Of Non-interest Is Enough To Silence Me. In The Journal I Am At Ease.

Poetry Is The Alchemy Which Teaches Us To Convert Ordinary Materials Into Gold.

I Am Like A Snake Who Has Already Bitten. I Retreat From A Direct Battle While Knowing The Slow Effect Of The Poison.