A jealous lover lights his torch from the firebrand of the fiend.
The emotions may be endless. The more we express them, the more we may have to express.
Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its highest. Live in fragments no longer
History develops, art stands still.
Love and understand the Italians, for the people are more marvellous than the land.
When I think of what life is, and how seldom love is answered by love; it is one of the moments for which the world was made.
To make us feel small in the right way is a function of art; men can only make us feel small in the wrong way.
Read widely and with discrimination. Bad writing is contagious.
Death, whether it regards ourselves or others, appears less terrible in war than at home. The cries of women and children, friends in anguish, a dark room, dim tapers, priests and physicians, are what affect us the most on the death-bed. Behold us already more than half dead and buried.
My arm is paralyzed; my voice that once could be heard all along the line, is gone; I can scarcely speak above a whisper; my hearing is very much impaired, and sometimes I feel as if I wished the end would come; but I have some misrepresentations of my battles that I wish to correct, so as to have my record correct before I die.
I don't think balance is something you get from someone else; it's something women have to find from within. For me, finding balance is still a work in progress.