Lovers of literature will look for the remains of the golden treasure in that shipwreck on the bottom of the sea of criticism.

There is something that falls short of perfection in every book, without exception, something influenced by the age, even something ridiculous; just like everyone, without exception, has weaknesses.

The man who has experienced shipwreck shudders even at a calm sea.

Literature has been the salvation of the damned, literature has inspired and guided lovers, routed despair and can perhaps in this case save the world.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium

يذكر ما كانت تقوله : معك أشعر أني أذكى من حقيقتي و أنني أجمل . معك لا أحتاج إلى سواك ، لا إلى بشر ولا إلى أشياء