It is easy to understand why the rabble dislike cats. A cat is beautiful; it suggests ideas of luxury, cleanliness, voluptuous pleasures.

I am the vampire at my own veins.

Where one should see only what is beautiful, our public looks only for what is true.

In this horror of solitude, this need to lose his ego in exterior flesh, which man calls grandly the need for love.

The vices of man, as full of horror as one might suppose them to be, contain the proof (if in nothing else but their infinitely expandable nature) of his taste for the infinite; only, it is a taste that often takes a wrong turn.

To handle a language skillfully is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.

In philosophical inquiry, the human spirit, imitating the movement of the stars, must follow a curve which brings it back to its point of departure. To conclude is to close a circle.