Any healthy man can go without food for two days but not without poetry.
Everything that is beautiful and noble is the product of reason and calculation.
Always be a poet, even in prose.
There exist only three beings worthy of respect the priest, the soldier, the poet. To know, to kill, to create.
It is regrettable that, among the Rights of Man, the right of contradicting oneself has been forgotten.
There is no such thing as a long piece of work, except one that you dare not start.
Who among us has not, in moments of ambition, dreamt of the miracle of a form of poetic prose, musical but without rhythm and rhyme, both supple and staccato enough to adapt itself to the lyrical movements of our souls, the undulating movements of ou
In order for the artist to have a world to express he must first be situated in this world, oppressed or oppressing, resigned or rebellious, a man among men.
Evil is done without effort, naturally, it is the working of fate; good is always the product of an art
Genius is no more than childhood recaptured at will, childhood equipped now with man's physical means to express itself, and with the analytical mind that enables it to bring order into the sum of experience, involuntarily amassed.
There are in every man, at every hour, two simultaneous postulations, one towards God, the other towards Satan
Every idea is endowed of itself with immortal life, like a human being. All created form, even that which is created by man, is immortal. For form is independent of matter: molecules do not constitute form.
Inspiration comes of working every day.
This life is a hospital in which every patient is possessed with a desire to change his bed.
Nature is a temple in which living columns sometimes emit confused words. Man approaches it through forests of symbols, which observe him with familiar glances.
Those men get along best with women who can get along best without them.
The man who says his evening prayer is a captain posting his sentinels. He can sleep.
If a given combination of trees, mountains, water, and houses, say a landscape, is beautiful, it is not so by itself, but because of me, of my favor, of the idea or feeling I attach to it.
I am unable to understand how a man of honor could take a newspaper in his hands without a shudder of disgust.
Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred, and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.
It is the hour to be drunken! to escape being the martyred slaves of time, be ceaselessly drunk. On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, as you wish.
We are weighed down, every moment, by the conception and the sensation of time. And there are but two means of escaping and forgetting this nightmare: pleasure and work. Pleasure consumes us. Work strengthens us. Let us choose.
A breath of wind from the wings of madness.
It is necessary to work, if not from inclination, at least from despair. Everything considered, work is less boring than amusing oneself.
Music fathoms the sky.