I am a cemetery abhorred by the moon, In which long worms crawl like remorse.

Music fathoms the sky.

There is no such thing as a long piece of work, except one that you dare not start.

By nature, by necessity itself, [primitive man] is encyclopedic, while civilized man finds himself confined in the infinitely small regions of specialization.

A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counselor, a multitude of counselors.

I have cultivated my hysteria with delight and terror. Now I suffer continually from vertigo, and today, 23rd of January, 1862, I have received a singular warning, I have felt the wind of the wing of madness pass over me.

Today I felt pass over me A breath of wind from the wings of madness.