I hate that which we have decided to call realism, even though I have been made one of its high priests.

My life which I dream will be so beautiful, so poetic, so vast, so filled with love will turn out to be like everybody else's - monotonous, sensible, stupid.

Beautiful things spoil nothing.

I tried to discover, in the rumor of forests and waves, words that other men could not hear, and I pricked up my ears to listen to the revelation of their harmony.

And indeed, what is better than to sit by one's fireside in the evening with a book, while the wind beats against the window and the lamp is buring?

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

Everything is there: the love of Art.