He is Gauguin, the savage who hates the burden of our civilization, a sort of Titan who, jealous of the creator, makes his own little world in his spare time, one who denies and defies, who prefers to see the sky red rather than blue like the rest of us.
— August Strindberg
Say what you will, love finds you even when you’ve given it up.
You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect.
—The Fault in Our Stars
You must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never really lived, and so she has never really died.
—The Picture of Dorian Gray