Living is a sickness to which sleep provides relief every sixteen hours. It's a palliative. The remedy is death.

In the library of the world men have hitherto been ranged according to the form, and the binding; the time is coming when they will take rank and order according to their contents and intrinsic merits.

Nature never said to me: Do not be poor; still less did she say: Be rich; her cry to me was always: Be independent.

There is a melancholy that stems from greatness

Contact with the world either breaks or hardens the heart.

Love is the exchange of two fantasies and the contact of two skins.

In the fine arts, as in many other things, we know well only what we have not learned.