Ah, it's my longing for whom I might have been that distracts and torments me!

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To know nothing about yourself is to live. To know yourself badly is to think.

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To have opinions is to sell out to youself. To have no opinions is to exist. To have every opinion is to be a poet.

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I wasn�t meant for reality, but life came and found me.

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We worship perfection because we can't have it; if we had it, we would reject it. Perfection is inhuman, because humanity is imperfect.

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I've never done anything but dream. This, and this alone, has been the meaning of my life. My only real concern has been my inner life.

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If I write what I feel, it's to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant, because everything is unimportant.

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We never love anyone. What we love is the idea we have of someone. It's our own concept�our own selves�that we love.

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My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.

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I've always rejected being understood. To be understood is to prostitute oneself. I prefer to be taken seriously for what I'm not, remaining humanly unknown, with naturalness and all due respect.

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