From all that urges and admonishes, the romantic turns away. He wants to dream, enjoy, immerse himself, instead of clearing his way by striving and wrestling. That which has been and rises out of what is past occupies him far more than what is to become and also more than what wants to become; for the word of the future would always be command. Experiences with their many echoes and their billows stand higher in his estimation than life with its tasks; for tasks always establish a bond with harsh reality. And from this he is in flight. He does not want to struggles against fate, but rather to receive it with an ardent and devout soul; he does not want to wrestle for the blessing, but to experience it, abandoning himself, devoid of will, to what spells salvation and bliss.

Words raced thru his mind and his fingers ached to capture them all on paper.

I have always noticed that these artists and writers are very unbalanced

What doesn't kill us gives us something new to write about.

I write about romance and passion to savour love twice, in the moment and in retrospect.

Some writers confuse authenticity, which they ought always to aim at, with originality, which they should never bother about.