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!

Genius is childhood recalled at will.

Life is a hospital in which every patient is possessed by a desire to change his bed.

There is no dream of love, however ideal it may be, which does not end up with a fat, greedy baby hanging from the breast.

Every idea is endowed of itself with immortal life, like a human being. All created form, even that which is created by man, is immortal. For form is independent of matter: molecules do not constitute form.

Nations, like families, have great men only in spite of themselves.

Drowsing, they take the noble attitude of a great sphinx, who, in a desert land, sleeps always, dreaming dreams that have no end.