Nature is a temple in which living columns sometimes emit confused words. Man approaches it through forests of symbols, which observe him with familiar glances.

When a singer puts his hand on his heart, it means usually, I will always love you!

What I say is that the supreme and singular joy of making love resides in the certainty of doing evil.

Today I had a strange warning. I felt the wind of insanity brush my mind.

It is this admirable and immortal instinct for beauty which causes us to regard the earth and its spectacles as a glimpse, a correspondence of the beyond.

Remembering is only a new form of suffering.

To say the word Romanticism is to say modern art - that is, intimacy, spirituality, color, aspiration towards the infinite, expressed by every means available to the arts.