George Sand to Liszt, July-August 1835: "Yes, Franzi, I am still in that deserted house; alone, absolutely alone, never opening the outside door except to admit a cenobitic dinner, and I cannot recall having known sweeter and purer days..."
Editor: That house belonged to her new lover, Louis-Chrysostom Michel, and actually she spent most of her time with him.
"It is a great comfort to me, I assure you, to realize that my spirit has not kept watch for so long that it has become inured to the joys of its vibrant younger days.... The closer I get to life's decline, the more I savor, piously and justly, the generous and providential things that it has to offer. On the far side of the hill, I pause and descend slowly, casting a loving, admiring glance at the beauties of the place I leave behind..."
Editor: Sand had just turned 31.
Some good ideas and true observations about the creative life, but damn if he wasn't a terrible writer, at least at the age of 25—haven't gotten farther than that yet.