There are two men inside the artist, the poet and the craftsman. One is born a poet. One becomes a craftsman.

She was cold by nature, self-love predominating over passion; rather than being virtuous, she preferred to have her pleasures all to herself.

Perfection is such a nuisance that I often regret having cured myself of using tobacco.

Sin ought to be something exquisite, my dear boy.

There are two men inside the artist, the poet and the craftsman. One is born a poet. One becomes a craftsman.

Inability, human incapacity, is the only boundary to an art.

I have but one passion: to enlighten those who have been kept in the dark, in the name of humanity which has suffered so much and is entitled to happiness. My fiery protest is simply the cry of my very soul.