What is art? Prostitution.

Alas! Man's vices, horrible as they are supposed to be, contain the positive proof of his taste for the infinite.

Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred, and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.

He possessed the logic of all good intentions and a knowledge of all the tricks of his trade, and yet he never succeeded at anything, because he believed too much in the impossible. Surprising? Why so? He was forever in the act of conceiving it!

Our religion is itself profoundly sad - a religion of universal anguish, and one which, because of its very catholicity, grants full liberty to the individual and asks no better than to be celebrated in each man's own language - so long as he knows anguish and is a painter.

To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.

I have more memories than if I were a thousand years old.