Infatuated, half through conceit, half through love of my art, I achieve the impossible working as no one else ever works.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
Everything that is strong in me has gone into my art work.
I adore art... when I am alone with my notes, my heart pounds and the tears stream from my eyes, and my emotion and my joys are too much to bear.
I'm in pursuit of what cannot be achieved: perfection.
I love art and I think I was destined to end up in some aspect of the arts.
I have this desire to have this immaculate form of love that really doesn't exist, so my obsession goes on through life and I never find it and I end up miserable. But it makes me a better writer.
It is through art, and through art only, that we can realise our perfection.
My imagination, my ability to understand the way love and people grow over time, how passion can surprise and renew, utterly failed me.
In art as in love, instinct is enough.
I couldn't love a woman who inspired me to be totally disinterested. If I fell in love with a woman for an artistic reason, or from the point of view of my work, I think it would rob her of something.
Believe me, were I ever to accomplish anything, it would be in music, which has always attracted me; and, without overestimating myself, I am conscious of possessing a certain creative faculty.