He felt alone, prey to the tedium, to the dreariness of time, especially at the approach of twilight which, during those late-autumn days, came in through the windows, settling on the furniture with a leaden pallor, sending the mirrors into mourning at light’s farewell...

Ornamentation, festoons, carvings, cartouches, bas-reliefs, countless surprises among the sculptures – and the tones of the facades weathered by time and rain, the pinks of fading twilight, smoky blues, misty greys, a richness of mildew, brickwork ripened by the years, the hues of a ruddy or anaemic complexion.

Is it not strange how quickly one can become detached from everything? How empty life appears when one is close to death!

Is this not the collector’s exquisite pleasure, that his desire should know no bounds, should reach out into the infinite, should never know full possession which disappoints by its very completeness. O what joy to be able to postpone the fulfillment of desire to infinity!

The essence of art that is at all noble is the DREAM, and this dream dwells only upon what is distant, absent, vanished, unattainable.

She sinks. She sinks in holy sadness. Like an Ophelia in tears she sinks.

Is that not what makes it great?' he retorted to his friend. 'Its beauty resides in its silence, and its glory in now only belonging to a few priests and poor people, that is to say to those who are purest because they have renounced the world. Its higher destiny is to be something which has outlived its time.

Then he returned to his theme: 'If so many lovers feel the desire to die and more and more die each day, while still in love, it is because love and death are linked by analogies, by underground passages, and communicate. One leads to the other. The one makes the other more acute, more intense. There is no doubt that death is a great stimulant of love. ("Love And Death")

What an austere landscape! Borluut was alone, with nothing but the sky and water. No footsteps, apart from his own, marked the immense expanse, the white desert which this ancient outer harbour of Bruges now was.

The act of writing itself is like an act of love. There is contact. There is exchange too. We no longer know whether the words come out of the ink onto the page, or whether they emerge from the page itself where they were sleeping, the ink merely giving them colour.