There Is No Truth. There Is Only

For Him The Universe Did Not Extend Beyond The Circumference Of Her Petticoat.

Caught Up In Life, You See It Badly. You Suffer From It Or Enjoy It Too Much. The Artist, In My Opinion, Is A Monstrosity, Something Outside Of Nature.

One's Existence Should Be In Two Parts: One Should Live Like A Bourgeois And Think Like A Demigod.

Talent Is Long Patience.

Everything, Even Herself, Was Now Unbearable To Her. She Wished That, Taking Wing Like A Bird, She Could Fly Somewhere, Far Away To Regions Of Purity, And There Grow Young Again.