Art just consists in making us swallow the commonplaces by charming us eternally.

What am I? Nothing. What would I be? Everything.

Art consists precisely in making us admire old stories, charming us with them eternally, as Nature charms with her eternal sun, her ancient earth, and her men built all on the same pattern, and all animated by the same feelings.

Time is the most terrible, the most discouraging, the most unconquerable of all obstacles, and one that may exist when no other does.

When I die my death will be caused by indignation at the stupidity of human nature.

Soul is as necessary in a painting as body.

I want to live faster, faster, faster! ... I fear that this desire to live always at high pressure is the presage of a short existence. Who knows?