If artists and poets are unhappy, it is after all because happiness does not interest them.

The human race, in its intellectual life, is organized like the bees: the masculine soul is a worker, sexually atrophied, and essentially dedicated to impersonal and universal arts; the feminine is queen, infinite fertile, omnipresent in its brooding industry, but passive and abounding in intuitions without method and passions without justice.

One's friends are that part of the human race with which one can be human.

Repetition is the only form of permanence that Nature can achieve.

Popular poets are the parish priests of the Muse, retailing her ancient divinations to a long since converted public.

A sanctity hangs about the sources of our being, whether physical, social, or imaginary.

A country without a memory is a country of madmen.