The idea of beauty which man creates for himself imprints itself on his whole attire, crumples or stiffens his dress, rounds off or squares his gesture, and in the long run even ends by subtly penetrating the very features of his face. Man ends by looking like his ideal self. These engravings can be translated either into beauty or ugliness; in one direction, they become caricatures, in the other, antique statues.

Who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature?

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.

Music fathoms the sky.

I have cultivated my hysteria with pleasure and terror.

I am a cemetery by the moon unblessed.

However incoherent a human existence may be, human unity is not bothered by it.