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

How slow life is, how violent hope is.

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.

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.

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

One can't carry one's father's corpse about everywhere.

It's raining my soul, it's raining, but it's raining dead eyes.