History is a combination of reality and lies. The reality of History becomes a lie. The unreality of the fable becomes the truth.

Lying is the only art form that the public sanctions and instinctively prefers to reality.

Continue reading Proust. His magnificent intelligence is particularly fond of describing stupidity. Which is ultimately exhausting.

Art is not a pastime but a priesthood.

The worst tragedy for a poet is to be admired through being misunderstood.

Love is mainly an affair of short spasms. If these spasms disappoint us, love dies. It is very seldom that it weathers the experience and becomes friendship.

Statues to great men are made of the stones thrown at them in their lifetime.