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.

I hate artists who are not of their time.

Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony.

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

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

I sing the joy of wandering and the pleasure of the wanderer's death

Artists are, above all, men who want to become inhuman.