Art Requires Neither Complaisance Nor Politeness; Nothing

Love, She Thought, Must Come Suddenly, With Great Outbursts And Lightnings,--a Hurricane Of The Skies, Which Falls Upon Life, Revolutionises It, Roots Up The Will Like A Leaf, And Sweeps The Whole Heart Into The Abyss.

She Would Have Liked Not To Be Alive, Or To Be Always Asleep.

… Her Heart Remained Empty Once More, And The Procession Of Days All Alike Began Again. So They Were Going To Follow One Another, Like This, In Line, Always Identical, Innumerable, Bringing Nothing!

We Have All Been Beaten! Each One Has To Bear His Misfortune! Resign Yourself!

Art Is Nothing Without Form.