The Trade Of Authorship Is A Violent,

I'm Beginning To Believe That There Are Angels Disguised As Men Who Pass Themselves Off As Such And Who Inhabit The Earth For A While To Console And Lift Up With Them Toward Heaven The Poor, Exhausted And Saddened Souls Who Were Ready To Perish Here Below.

We Must Love Stupid People Better Than Ourselves; Are They Not The Really Unfortunate Ones Of This World? Do Not People Without Taste And Without Ideal Grow Constantly Weary, Rejoicing In Nothing, And Being Quite Useless Here Below?

If People Were Not Wicked I Should Not Mind Their Being Stupid; But, To Our Misfortune, They Are Both.

The World Will Know And Understand Me Someday. But If That Day Does Not Arrive, It Does Not Greatly Matter. I Shall Have Opened The Way For Other Women.

One Wastes So Much Time, One Is So Prodigal Of Life, At Twenty! Our Days Of Winter Count For Double. That Is The Compensation Of The Old.