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.

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

My soul travels on the smell of perfume like the souls of other men on music.

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

The immense profundity of thought in vulgar locutions, like holes dug by generations of ants.

Imagination is an almost divine faculty which, without recourse to any philosophical method, immediately perceives everything: the secret and intimate connections between things, correspondences and analogies.

He possessed the logic of all good intentions and a knowledge of all the tricks of his trade, and yet he never succeeded at anything, because he believed too much in the impossible. Surprising? Why so? He was forever in the act of conceiving it!