Truth Is A Great Flirt.

As For Famous Men Who Were Not Artists, I Am Beginning To Be Tired Of Them. Those Poor Little Scoundrels Who Are Called Great Men Fill Me With Nothing But Overwhelming Horror.

I Carry A Deep Sadness Of The Heart Which Must Now And Then Break Out In Sound.

It Is Impossible To Imagine A More Complete Fusion With Nature Than That Of The Gypsy.

Companions, In Misery And Worse, That Is What We All Are, And To Try To Change This Substantially Avails Us Nothing.

I Foster A Sorrowful Conception Of Affection. Make No Sacrifices.