As a remedy against all ills - poverty, sickness, and melancholy - only one thing is absolutely necessary: a liking for work
I should like the fields tinged with red, the rivers yellow and the trees painted blue. Nature has no imagination.
Where are the dogs going? you people who pay so little attention ask. They are going about their business. And they are very punctilious, without wallets, notes, and without briefcases.
The immense appetite we have for biography comes from a deep-seated sense of equality.
There is a word, in a verb, something sacred which forbids us from using it recklessly. To handle a language cunningly is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.
Theory of the true civilization. It is not to be found in gas or steam or table turning. It consists in the diminution of the traces of original sin.
Everything that gives pleasure has its reason. To scorn the mobs of those who go astray is not the means to bring them around.
How little remains of the man I once was, save the memory of him! But remembering is only a new form of suffering.
What is it that brings on these moods of yours? Nothing mysterious: the ordinary pain of being alive.
True Civilization does not lie in gas, nor in steam, nor in turn-tables. It lies in the reduction of the traces of original sin.
The idea which man forms of beauty imprints itself throughout his attire, rumples or stiffens his garments, rounds off or aligns his gestures, and, finally, even subtly penetrates the features of his face.
Delacroix, Wagner, Baudelaire - all great theorists, bent on dominating other minds by sensuous means. Their one dream was to create the irresistible effect - to intoxicate, or overwhelm. They looked to analysis to provide them with the keyboard on which to play, with certainty, on man's emotions, and they sought in abstract meditation they key to sure and certain action upon their subject - man's nervous and psychic being.
My soul travels on the smell of perfume like the souls of other men on music.
Since photography gives us every guarantee of exactitude that we could desire (they really believe that, the mad fools !), then photography and art are the same thing.
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.
The insatiable thirst for everything that lies beyond, and that life reveals, is the most living proof of our immortality.
Every healthy man can do without food for two days — but without poetry, never!
Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows, and all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone. I already hear the dead thuds of logs below falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.
Love is a taste for prostitution. In fact, there is no noble pleasure that cannot be reduced to Prostitution.
The life of our city is rich in poetic and marvelous subjects. We are enveloped and steeped as though in an atmosphere of the marvelous; but we do not notice it.
Blessed art Thou, Lord, who giveth suffering As a divine remedy for our impurities.
I am unable to understand how a man of honor could take a newspaper in his hands without a shudder of disgust.
The unique and supreme voluptuousness of love lies in the certainty of committing evil. And men and women know from birth that in evil is found all sensual delight.
All good and genuine draftsmen draw according to the picture inscribed in their minds, and not according to nature.
I love to watch the fine mist of the night come on, The windows and the stars illumined, one by one, The rivers of dark smoke pour upward lazily, And the moon rise and turn them silver. I shall see The springs, the summers, and the autumns slowly pass; And when old Winter puts his blank face to the glass, I shall close all my shutters, pull the curtains tight, And build me stately palaces by candlelight.
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