In this mirror, I am enclosed a live and real as you. Imagine angels and not like the reflections.

Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.

Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony. The sublime idea men have of the universe would collapse with dizzying speed. The order which we find in nature, and which is only an effect of art, would at once vanish. Everything would break up in chaos. There would be no seasons, no civilization, no thought, no humanity; even life would give way, and the impotent void would reign everywhere.

People quickly grow accustomed to being the slaves of mystery.

I love men, not for what unites them, but for what divides them, and I want to know most of all what gnaws at their hearts.

In this mirror, I am enclosed a live and real as you. Imagine angels and not like the reflections.

Without poets, without artists... everything would fall apart into chaos. There would be no more seasons, no more civilizations, no more thought, no more humanity, no more life even; and impotent darkness would reign forever. Poets and artists together determine the features of their age, and the future meekly conforms to their edit.