A civilization begins to decline the moment Life becomes its sole obsession.
There is no limit to suffering.
We are all geniuses when we dream.
Each of us is born with a share of purity, predestined to be corrupted by our commerce with mankind, by that sin against solitude.
Nostalgia, more than anything, gives us the shudder of our own imperfection. This is why with Chopin we feel so little like gods.
As art sinks into paralysis, artists multiply. This anomaly ceases to be one if we realize that art, on its way to exhaustion, has become both impossible and easy.