I hate artists who are not of their time.

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.

We cannot carry our father's corpse with us everywhere we go.

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.

How slow life is, how violent hope is.

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

Joy came always after pain.