The old Paris is no more (the form of a city changes faster, alas! than a mortal's heart).

The life of our city is rich in poetic and marvelous subjects. We are enveloped and steeped as though in an atmosphere of the marvelous; but we do not notice it.

Always be a poet, even in prose.

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

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.

There is no sweeter pleasure than to surprise a man by giving him more than he hopes for.

Being a useful man has always seemed to me to be something truly hideous.