At Least I Have The Modesty To

It Is Difficult To Put Into Words What I Suffered-the Longing That Seemed To Be Tearing My Heart Out By The Roots, The Dreadful Sense Of Being Alone In An Empty Universe, The Agonies That Thrilled Through Me As If The Blood Were Running Ice-cold Through My Veins, The Disgust With Living, The Impossibility Of Dying. Shakespeare Himself Never Described This Torture; But He Counts It, In Hamlet, Among The Terrible Of All The Evils Of Existence. I Had Stopped Composing; My Mind Seemed To Become Feebler As My Feelings Grew More Intense. I Did Nothing. One Power Was Left To Me-to Suffer.

A Feeble Mind, Conscious Of Its Own Feebleness, Grows Feeble Under That Very Consciousness. As Soon As The Power Of Fear Becomes Known To It, There Follows The Fear Of Fear, And, On The First Perturbation, Reason Abandons It.

Time, Time - That Is Our Greatest Master! Alas, Like Ugolino, Time Devours Its Own Children.

To Render My Works Properly Requires A Combination Of Extreme Precision And Irresistible Verve, A Regulated Vehemence, A Dreamy Tenderness, And An Almost Morbid Melancholy.

It Is So Rare...to Find A Complete Person, With A Soul, A Heart And An Imagination; So Rare For Characters As Ardent And Restless As Ours To Meet And To Be Matched Together, That I Hardly Know How To Tell You What Happiness It Gives Me To Know You.