He Who Is Only Just Is Cruel;

If I Don't Write To Empty My Mind, I Go Mad. As To That Regular, Uninterrupted Love Of Writing. I Do Not Understand It. I Feel It As A Torture, Which I Must Get Rid Of, But Never As A Pleasure. On The Contrary, I Think Composition A Great Pain.

If I Could Always Read, I Should Never Feel The Want Of Company.

You Gave Me The Key To Your Heart, My Love, Then Why Did You Make Me Knock?

I Am The Very Slave Of Circumstance And Impulse -- Borne Away With Every Breath!

Smiles Form The Channels Of A Future Tear.