In reading, a lonely quiet concert is given to our minds; all our mental faculties will be present in this symphonic exaltation.

Every soul is a melody which needs renewing.

Everything in the world exists in order to end up as a book.

The world exists to end up in a book.

Yes, I know, we are merely empty forms of matter, but we are indeed sublime in having invented God and our soul. So sublime, my friend, that I want to gaze upon matter, fully conscious that it exists, and yet launching itself madly into Dream, despite its knowledge that Dream has no existence, extolling the Soul and all the divine impressions of that kind which have collected within us from the beginning of time and proclaiming, in the face of the Void which is truth, these glorious lies!

Paint, not the thing but the effect which it produces.

A soul trembling to sit by a hearth so bright, To exist again, it’s enough if I borrow from Your lips the breath of my name you murmur all night.