People quickly grow accustomed to being the slaves of mystery.

I hate artists who are not of their time.

My, how beautiful is war! its songs, its leisure!

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

A structure becomes architectural, and not sculptural, when its elements no longer have their justification in nature.

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.

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