Devil, do you dare approach me? and do you not fear the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head?
Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity and ruin.
Solitude was my only consolation – deep, dark, deathlike solitude.
I beheld the wretch-the miserable monster whom I had created.
The whole series of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force of reality.
Elegance is inferior to virtue.
Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world.
The agony of my feelings allowed me no respite; no incident occurred from which my rage and misery could not extract its food.
And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper. I have an affection for it, for it was the offspring of happy days, when death and grief were but words, which found no true echo in my heart.
With how many things are we on the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries.
In my joy I thrust my hand into the live embers, but quickly drew it out with a cry of pain. How strange, I thought that the same cause should produce such opposite effects.
He is dead who called me into being, and when I shall be no more the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish.
The world to me was a secret, which I desired to discover; to her it was a vacancy, which she sought to people with imaginations of her own.
My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy, and when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change without torture such as you cannot even imagine.
Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.
When falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves of certain happiness?
He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.
I saw no cause for their unhappiness, but I was deeply affected by it. If such lovely creatures were miserable, it was less strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being, should be wretched.
I am malicious because I am miserable.
Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of a void, but out of chaos; the materials must in the first place be afforded; it can give form to dark, shapeless substances, but cannot bring into being the substance itself.