The vague torment of ... ambition.
The artist is nothing without the gift, but the gift is nothing without work.
Respectable people... What bastards!
How evil life must be if it were indeed necessary that such imploring cries, such cries of physical and moral wretchedness, should ever and ever ascend to heaven!
I would rather die of passion than of boredom.
Sin ought to be something exquisite, my dear boy.