I Am A Galley Slave To Pen

But Reason Always Cuts A Poor Figure Beside Sentiment; The One Being Essentially Restricted, Like Everything That Is Positive, While The Other Is Infinite.

You Cannot Pluck Love Out Of Your Heart As You Would Pull A Tooth.

Let Nothing Dupe You! Such Is The Horrible Maxim That Acts As A Solvent Upon Every Noble Feeling Man Experiences.

If The Artist Does Not Fling Himself, Without Reflecting, Into His Work, As Curtis Flung Himself Into The Yawning Gulf, As The Soldier Flings Himself Into The Enemy's Trenches, And If, Once In This Crater, He Does Not Work Like A Miner On Whom The Walls Of His Gallery Have Fallen In; If He Contemplates Difficulties Instead Of Overcoming Them One By One ... He Is Simply Looking On At The Suicide Of His Own Talent.

The Fact Is That Love Is Of Two Kinds, One Which Commands, And One Which Obeys. The Two Are Quite Distinct, And The Passion To Which The One Gives Rise Is Not The Passion Of The Other.