Progress, this great heresy of decay.

The Poet is like the prince of the clouds, who haunts the tempest and laughs at the archer. Exiled on the ground in the midst of the jeering crowd, his giant's wings keep him from walking.

A child sees everything in a sense of newness - he is always drunk. Genius is nothing but childhood re-attained at will.

Nations, like families, have great men only in spite of themselves. They do everything in their power not to have any. And therefore, the great man, in order to exist, must possess a force of attack which is greater than the force of resistance developed by millions of people.

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

The lover of life makes the whole world into his family, just as the lover of the fair sex creates his from all the lovely women he has found, from those that could be found, and those who are impossible to find.

What do I care if you are good? Be beautiful! and be sad!