Nothing in a portrait is a matter of indifference. Gesture, grimace, clothing, decor even - all must combine to realize a character.
It is the greatest art of the devil to convince us he does not exist.
For the perfect idler, for the passionate observer it becomes an immense source of enjoyment to establish his dwelling in the throng, in the ebb and flow, the bustle, the fleeting and the infinite. To be away from home and yet to feel at home anywhere; to see the world, to be at the very centre of the world, and yet to be unseen of the world, such are some of the minor pleasures of those independent, intense and impartial spirits, who do not lend themselves easily to linguistic definitions. The observer is a prince enjoying his incognito wherever he goes.
It is unfortunately very true that, without leisure and money, love can be no more than an orgy of the common man. Instead of being a sudden impulse full of ardor and reverie, it becomes a distastefully utilitarian affair.
Multitude, solitude: equal and interchangeable terms for the active and prolific poet.
The form of a town changes more swiftly alas! Than the heart of a mortal.
Quand notre coeur a fait une fois sa vendange, Vivre est un mal. Once our heart has been harvested once, Life becomes miserable.
But the true voyagers are only those who leave Just to be leaving; hearts light, like balloons, They never turn aside from their fatality And without knowing why they always say: "Let's go!
Woman is natural, that is to say, abominable.
Nature... is nothing but the inner voice of self-interest.
Torture, as the art of discovering the truth, is barbaric nonsense; it is the application of a material means to a spiritual end.
Go then, a starveling girl With no perfume or pearls, Only your nudity O my beauty!
Drink wine, drink poetry, drink virtue.
Within the bottle's depths, the wine's soul sang one night. Drink wine, drink poetry, drink virtue.
I have more memories than if I were a thousand years old.
Finer than any sand are dusts of gold that gleam, Vague starpoints, in the mystic iris of their eyes.
The vices of man, as full of horror as one might suppose them to be, contain the proof (if in nothing else but their infinitely expandable nature) of his taste for the infinite; only, it is a taste that often takes a wrong turn.
The immense appetite we have for biography comes from a deep-seated sense of equality.
Everything, alas, is an abyss, actions, desires, dreams, words!
Forest, I fear you! In my ruined heart your roaring wakens the same agony as in cathedrals when the organ moans and from the depths I hear that I am damned.
To be a great man and a saint to oneself, that's the only important thing.
I should like the fields tinged with red, the rivers yellow and the trees painted blue. Nature has no imagination.
It is at despair at not being able to be noble and beautiful by natural means that we have made up our faces so strangely.
What is it that brings on these moods of yours? Nothing mysterious: the ordinary pain of being alive.
It is at once by way of poetry and through poetry, as with music, that the soul glimpses splendors from beyond the tomb; and when an exquisite poem brings one's eyes to the point of tears, those tears are not evidence of an excess of joy, they are witness far more to an exacerbated melancholy, a disposition of the nerves, a nature exiled among imperfect things, which would like to possess, without delay, a paradise revealed on this very same earth.
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