Love is a taste for prostitution. In fact, there is no noble pleasure that cannot be reduced to Prostitution.

Unable to suppress love, the Church wanted at least to disinfect it, and it created marriage.

The artist is today and has been for many years, despite his absence of merit, simply a spoiled child. So many honors, so much money bestowed on men without souls and without education.

What men call love is a very small, restricted, feeble thing compared with this ineffable orgy, this divine prostitution of the soul giving itself entire, all its poetry and all its charity, to the unexpected as it comes along, to the stranger as he passes.

Love is the natural occupation of the man of leisure.

Two fundamental literary qualities: supernaturalism and irony.

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.