The reason for the sadness of this modern age and the men who live in it is that it looks for the truth in everything and finds it.
Edmond de Goncourt
A poet is a man who puts up a ladder to a star and climbs it while playing a violin.
man poet star
If there is a God, atheism must seem to Him as less of an insult than religion.
insults religion organized-religion insult god atheism
Genius is the talent of a person who is dead.
talent genius person dead
People don't like the true and simple; they like fairy tales and humbug.
people true simple tales fairy
A painting in a museum hears more ridiculous opinions than anything else in the world.
art world opinions ridiculous painting
Barbarism is needed every four or five hundred years to bring the world back to life. Otherwise it would die of civilization.
life world civilization die barbarism
Laughter is the mind's intonation. There are ways of laughing which have the sound of counterfeit coins.
sound mind laughing laughter
A new system of decoration, and... A poetic fantasy in the creation of the art object.
system art fantasy creation poetic
Historians tell the story of the past, novelists the story of the present.
past present story historians novelists
I have always derived indescribable pleasure from leading a decent woman to the edge of sin and leaving her there to live between the temptation and the fear of that sin.
women sin temptation
[He] went on to say that during all those years he had done nothing at all, that all he had felt had been a need to live, to live actively, violently, noisily, a need to sing, to make music, to roam the woods, to drink a little too much and get involved in a brawl.
life living
As a general truth, it is safe to say that any picture that produces a moral impression is a bad picture.
truth
age men truth
Man is a mind betrayed, not served, by his organs.
man mind
Today I begin to understand what love must be, if it exists.. When we are parted, we each feel the lack of the other half of ourselves. We are incomplete like a book in two volumes of which the first has been lost. That is what I imagine love to be: incompleteness in absence.
absence
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