My, how beautiful is war! its songs, its leisure!
Joy always came after pain.
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.
The plastic virtues: purity, unity, and truth, keep nature in subjection.
People quickly grow accustomed to being the slaves of mystery.
Artists are, above all, men who want to become inhuman.