The Poet is a kinsman in the clouds Who scoffs at archers, loves a stormy day; But on the ground, among the hooting crowds, He cannot walk, his wings are in the way.

To dream magnificently is not a gift given to all men, and even for those who possess it, it runs a strong risk of being progressively diminished by the ever-growing dissipation of modern life and by the restlessness engendered by material progress. The ability to dream is a divine and mysterious ability; because it is through dreams that man communicates with the shadowy world which surrounds him. But this power needs solitude to develop freely; the more one concentrates, the more one is likely to dream fully, deeply.

Any man who does not accept the conditions of life sells his soul.

Everything for me becomes allegory

I am unable to understand how a man of honor could take a newspaper in his hands without a shudder of disgust.

Cats, so strong and gentle, the pride of the household.

Nature is a word, an allegory, a mold, an embossing, if you will.