Any newspaper, from the first line to the last, is nothing but a web of horrors, I cannot understand how an innocent hand can touch a newspaper without convulsing in disgust.

If a given combination of trees, mountains, water, and houses, say a landscape, is beautiful, it is not so by itself, but because of me, of my favor, of the idea or feeling I attach to it.

Life swarms with innocent monsters.

Inspiration comes of working every day.

The immense appetite we have for biography comes from a deep-seated sense of equality.

Go then, a starveling girl With no perfume or pearls, Only your nudity O my beauty!

The idea which man forms of beauty imprints itself throughout his attire, rumples or stiffens his garments, rounds off or aligns his gestures, and, finally, even subtly penetrates the features of his face.