After the pain of this disappointment her heart once more stood empty, and the succession of identical days began again.

Only three things are infinite. The sky in its stars, the sea in its drops of water, and the heart in its tears.

I like prostitution. My heart has never failed to pound at the sight of one of those provocatively dressed women walking in the rain under the gaslamps, just as the sight of monks in their robes and girdles touches some ascetic, hidden corner of my soul.

Art requires neither complaisance nor politeness; nothing but faith, faith and freedom.

Books aren't made in the way that babies are: they are made like pyramids. There's some long-pondered plan, and then great blocks of stone are placed one on top of the other, and it's back-breaking, sweaty, time consuming work. And all to no purpose! It just stands there in the desert! But it towers over it prodigiously. Jackals piss at the base of it, and bourgeois clamber to the top of it, etc. Continue this comparison.

Everything is there: the love of Art.

She wanted to die, but she also wanted to live in Paris.