In certain almost supernatural states of the soul, the profundity of life reveals itself entirely in the spectacle, however ordinary it may be, before one's eyes. It becomes its symbol.

I have to confess that I had gambled on my soul and lost it with heroic insouciance and lightness of touch. The soul is so impalpable, so often useless, and sometimes such a nuisance, that I felt no more emotion on losing it than if, on a stroll, I had mislaid my visiting card.

What is exhilarating in bad taste is the aristocratic pleasure of giving offense.

A precious liquid, a poison dearer than that of the Borgias - because it is made from our blood, our health, our sleep, and two-thirds of our love - we must be stingy with it.

There exist only three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the soldier, the poet. To know, to kill, to create.

Finer than any sand are dusts of gold that gleam, Vague starpoints, in the mystic iris of their eyes.

All the visible universe is nothing but a shop of images and signs.