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.

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.

Joy came always after pain.

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

Joy always came after pain.

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

To insist on purity is to baptize instinct, to humanize art, and to deify personality.