There are two men inside the artist, the poet and the craftsman. One is born a poet. One becomes a craftsman.
If you shut up truth, and bury it underground, it will but grow.
A god of kindness would be charitable to all. Your god of wrath and punishment is but a monstrous phantasy.
Did not one spend the first half of one's days in dreams of happiness and the second half in regrets and terrors?
Oh, that's typical of you modern young men; you've nibbled at science and it's made you ill, because you've not been able to satisfy that old craving for the absolute that you absorbed in your nurseries. You'd like science to give you all the answers at one go, whereas we're only just beginning to understand it, and it'll probably never be anything but an eternal quest. And so you repudiate science, you fall back on religion, and religion won't have you any more. Then you relapse into pessimism...Yes, it's the disease of our age, of the end of the century: you're all inverted Werthers.
The road to Lourdes is littered with crutches, but not one wooden leg.
If I cannot overwhelm with my quality, I will overwhelm with my quantity.
The past was but the cemetery of our illusions: one simply stubbed one's toes on the gravestones.
Blow the candle out, I don't need to see what my thoughts look like.
I am an artist... I am here to live out loud.
When you have a sorrow that is too great it leaves no room for any other.
An entire lifetime would not be long enough for you to exhaust the glance of the young harvest-girl.
Why is it that my heart is so touched whenever I meet a dog lost in our noisy streets? Why do I feel such anguished pity when I see one of these creatures coming and going, sniffing everyone, frightened, despairing of even finding its master?
In my view you cannot claim to have seen something until you have photographed it.
My fiery protest is simply the cry of my very soul.
Through the centuries, the history of peoples is but a lesson in mutual tolerance.
Perfection is such a nuisance that I often regret having cured myself of using tobacco.
When truth is buried, it grows. It chokes. It gathers such an explosive force that on the day it bursts out, it blows up everything with it.
In love as in speculation there is much filth; in love also, people think only of their own gratification; yet without love there would be no life, and the world would come to an end.
One forges one's style on the terrible anvil of daily deadlines.
It is not necessary that one should humble oneself to deserve assistance, it is sufficient that one should suffer.
Yes! live life with every fibre of one's being, surrender oneself to it, with no thoughts of rebellion, without deluding oneself that one can improve it and render it painless.
Art for me...is a negation of society, an affirmation of the individual, outside of all the rules and all the demands of society.
A new dynasty is never founded without a struggle. Blood makes good manure.
The vague torment of ... ambition.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: