Who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature?
I am bored in France because everyone resembles Voltaire.
Inspiration comes of working every day.
It is the pleasure of astonishing others, and the proud satisfaction of never being astonished by them.
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.
I have cultivated my hysteria with pleasure and terror.