There Comes A Point At Which You

The Morality Of Art Is In Its Very Beauty.

Adultery ... Could Be As Banal As Marriage.

One Day, I Shall Explode Like An Artillery Shell And All My Bits Will Be Found On The Writing Table.

How We Keep These Dead Souls In Our Hearts. Each One Of Us Carries Within Himself His Necropolis.

She Loved The Sea For Its Storms Alone, Cared For Vegetation Only When It Grew Here And There Among Ruins. She Had To Extract A Kind Of Personal Advantage From Things And She Rejected As Useless Everything That Promised No Immediate Gratification — For Her Temperament Was More Sentimental Than Artistic, And What She Was Looking For Was Emotions, Not Scenery.