I am so glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are you sonnets.

Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The loves and sorrows that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude.

Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will. They moved to their terrible ends as automatons move. Choice is taken from them and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, lives but to give rebellion its fascination, and disobedience its charm.