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 our reveries, and the convulsive movements of our consciences? This obsessive ideal springs above all from frequent contact with enormous cities, from the junction of their innumerable connections.

Dancing is poetry with arms and legs.

In literature as in ethics, there is danger, as well as glory, in being subtle. Aristocracy isolates us.

That which is not slightly distorted lacks sensible appeal; from which it follows that irregularity – that is to say, the unexpected, surprise and astonishment, are a essential part and characteristic of beauty.

A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counselor, a multitude of counselors.

What strange phenomena we find in a great city, all we need do is stroll about with our eyes open. Life swarms with innocent monsters.

the Devil's hand directs our every move - / the things we loathed become the things we love