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.

There is no more steely barb than that of the Infinite.

On the vaporization and the centralization of the Self. All is there.

In order not to feel time's horrid fardel bruise your shoulders, grinding you into the earth, get drunk and stay that way. On what? On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever. But get drunk!

Drink wine, drink poetry, drink virtue.

Multitude, solitude: equal and interchangeable terms for the active and prolific poet.

My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.