A frenzied passion for art is a canker that devours everything else.

The taste for pleasure attaches us to the present. The concern with our salvation leaves us hanging on the future.

But the true voyagers are only those who leave Just to be leaving; hearts light, like balloons, They never turn aside from their fatality And without knowing why they always say: "Let's go!

With wine, poetry, or virtue as you choose. But get drunk.

The idea of beauty which man creates for himself imprints itself on his whole attire, crumples or stiffens his dress, rounds off or squares his gesture, and in the long run even ends by subtly penetrating the very features of his face. Man ends by looking like his ideal self. These engravings can be translated either into beauty or ugliness; in one direction, they become caricatures, in the other, antique statues.

The world only goes round by misunderstanding.

The form of a town changes more swiftly alas! Than the heart of a mortal.