An artist is an artist only because of his exquisite sense of beauty, a sense which shows him intoxicating pleasures, but which at the same time implies and contains an equally exquisite sense of all deformities and all disproportion.

Oh, Creator! Can monsters exist in the sight of him who alone knows how they were invented, how they invented themselves, and how they might not have invented themselves?

Like those great sphinxes lounging through eternity in noble attitudes upon the desert sand, they gaze incuriously at nothing, calm and wise.

Life swarms with innocent monsters.

We love women in proportion to their degree of strangeness to us.

In my mind it strolls, as well as in my apartment. A cat, strong, sweet and delightful.

Love is the natural occupation of the man of leisure.