An idea's birth is legitimate if one has the feeling that one is catching oneself plagiarizing oneself.
Imagination has the right to feast in the shade of the tree that it turns into a forest.
The press, that goiter of the world, swells up with the desire for conquest and bursts with the achievements which every day brings. A week has room for the boldest climax of the human drive for expansion.
The agitator seizes the word. The artist is seized by it.
It is either a half-truth or a truth and a half.
To have no ideas and being able to express them is the essence of journalism.