He loved a book because it was a book; he loved its odor, its form, its title. What he loved in a manuscript was its old illegible date, the bizarre and strange Gothic characters, the heavy gilding which loaded its drawings. It was its pages covered with dust — dust of which he breathed the sweet and tender perfume with delight.

Of all lies, art is the least untrue.

Happiness is a monstrosity! Punished are those who seek it.

That man has missed something who has never left a brothel at sunrise feeling like throwing himself into the river out of pure disgust.

Reality does not conform to the ideal, but confirms it.

Maybe happiness too is a metaphor invented on a day of boredom

Concern for morality makes every work of the imagination false and stupid.