He regarded love as a sort of cruel malady through which the elect are required to pass in their late youth and from which they emerge$$$ pale and wrung$$$ but ready for the business of living.

[Whenever] you get near the human race$$$ there's layers and layers of nonsense.

There is no need for me to curse you -the murderer survives the victim only to learn that it was himself that he longed to be rid of. Hatred is self-hatred.

Wherever you come near the human race$$$ there's layers and layers of nonsense.

If you write to impress it will always be bad$$$ but if you write to express it will be good.

Trust your own instinct. Your mistakes might as well be your own$$$ instead of someone else's.

So with curious eyes and sick surmise<br>We watched him day by day$$$<br>And wondered if each one of us<br>Would end the self-same way$$$<br>For none can tell to what red Hell<br>His sightless soul may stray.

Lying$$$ the telling of beautiful untrue things$$$ is the proper aim of Art.

As for omens$$$ there is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that.

An artist should create beautiful things$$$ but should put nothing of his own life into them.