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.

Woman is natural, that is to say, abominable.

To be away from home and yet to feel oneself everywhere at home; to see the world, to be at the centre of the world, and yet to remain hidden from the world—impartial natures which the tongue can but clumsily define. The spectator is a prince who everywhere rejoices in his incognito.

I throw fresh seeds out. Who knows what survives?

Beauty is the sole ambition, the exclusive goal of Taste.

What can an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has felt, if only for a second, the infinity of delight?

But a dandy can never be a vulgar man