A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.
It is remarkable how a man cannot summarize his thoughts in even the most general sort of way without betraying himself completely, without putting his whole self into it, quite unawares, presenting as if in allegory the basic themes and problems of his life.
I have always been an admirer, I regard the gift of admiration as indispensable if one is to amount to something; I don’t know where I would be without it.
The accouterments of life were so rich and varied, so elaborated, that almost no place at all was left for life itself. Each and every accessory was so costly and beautiful that it had an existence above and beyond the purpose it was meant to serve – confusing the observer and absorbing attention.
Speech is civilization itself. The word, even the most contradictory word, preserves contact – it is silence which isolates.
It is as well that the world knows only a fine piece of work and not also its origins, the conditions under which it came into being; for knowledge of the sources of an artist’s inspiration would often confuse readers and shock them, and the excellence of the writing would be of no avail.
But was it not true that there were people, certain individuals, whom one found it impossible to picture dead, precisely because they were so vulgar? That was to say: they seemed so fit for life, so good at it, that they would never die, as if they were unworthy of the consecration of death.
These artists pay little attention to an encircling present that bears no direct relation to the world of work in which they live, and they therefore see in it nothing more than an indifferent framework for life, either more or less favorable to production.
Men do not know why they award fame to one work of art rather than another. Without being in the faintest connoisseurs, they think to justify the warmth of their commendations by discovering it in a hundred virtues, whereas the real ground of their applause is inexplicable – it is sumpathy.
Passion-means to live for life’s sake but I am well aware you Germans live for the sake of experience. Passion means to forget ones self. But you do things in order to enrich yourselves.
Pues el hombre ama y respeta al hombre mientras no se halla en condiciones de juzgarlo, y el deseo vehemente es el resultado de un conocimiento imperfecto.
And then he’d rub his cheeks with cold cream because he’d just shaved and the tears stung.
Io sto tra due mondi, di cui nessuno e’ il mio, e per questo la mia vita e’ un po’ difficile.