Art is an infinitely precious good, a draught both refreshing and cheering which restores the stomach and the mind to the natural equilibrium of the ideal.

The Poet is like the prince of the clouds, who haunts the tempest and laughs at the archer. Exiled on the ground in the midst of the jeering crowd, his giant's wings keep him from walking.

You walk on corpses, beauty, undismayed.

God is the only being who, in order to reign, doesn't even need to exist.

Blessed art Thou, Lord, who giveth suffering As a divine remedy for our impurities.

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.

He who looks through an open window sees fewer things than he who looks through a closed window.