Nothing can be done except little by little.

Who among us has not dreamt, in moments of ambition, of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical without rhythm and rhyme, supple and staccato enough to adapt to the lyrical stirrings of the soul, the undulations of dreams, and sudden leaps of consciousness.

France at the dinner table in faraway places; but here, among ourselves, in the family, let us face the facts: France is not poetic; to tell the truth, she even feels a congenital horror of poetry. Among the writers who use verse, those whom she will always prefer are the most prosaic.

We revel in the laxness of the path we take.

Within the bottle's depths, the wine's soul sang one night. Drink wine, drink poetry, drink virtue.

Where are the dogs going? you people who pay so little attention ask. They are going about their business. And they are very punctilious, without wallets, notes, and without briefcases.

There is no dream of love, however ideal it may be, which does not end up with a fat, greedy baby hanging from the breast.