Love of man for woman – love of woman for man. That’s the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.
I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.
I wrote for nearly six hours. When I stopped, the dark mood, as if by magic, had folded its cloak and gone away.
What makes life worth living? Better surely, to yield to the stain of suicide blood in me and seek forgetfulness in the embrace of cold dark death.
No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.
These critics who crucify me do not guess the littlest part of my sincerity. They must be burned in a blaze. I cannot learn from them.