Death was a blessing, so great, so deep that we can fathom it only at those moments, like this one now, when we are reprieved from it. It was the return home from long, unspeakably painful wanderings, the correction of a great error, the loosening of tormenting chains, the removal of barriers---it set a horrible accident to rights again.
Love is the most unstable, the most unreliable of man’s instincts, the most prone of its very essence to error and fatal perversion.
The past was only tolerable if one felt above it, instead of having to stare stupidly at it aware of one's present impotence.
Genius is a form of the life force that is deeply versed in illness, that both draw creatively from it and creates through it.
But admiration and sadness, admiration and worry, is not that almost a definition of love?
What an absurd torture for the artist to know that an audience identifies him with a work that, within himself, he has moved beyond and that was merely a game played with something in which he does not believe.
Whoever loves the more is at a disadvantage and must suffer.