Who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature?
Within the bottle's depths, the wine's soul sang one night. Drink wine, drink poetry, drink virtue.
Woman is natural, that is to say, abominable.
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.
All the visible universe is nothing but a shop of images and signs.
Doubt, or the absence of faith and naivete, is a vice peculiar to this age, for no one is obedient nowadays; and naivete, which means the dominance of temperament in the manner, is a gift from God, possessed by very few.