One's existence should be in two parts: one should live like a bourgeois and think like a demigod.
What is beautiful is moral, that is all there is to it.
You don't know what it is to stay a whole day with your head in your hands trying to squeeze your unfortunate brain so as to find a word.
What better occupation, really, than to spend the evening at the fireside with a book, with the wind beating on the windows and the lamp burning bright...Haven't you ever happened to come across in a book some vague notion that you've had, some obscure idea that returns from afar and that seems to express completely your most subtle feelings?
What I would like to write is a book about nothing, a book without exterior attachments, which would be held together by the innerforce of its style, as the earth without support is held in the air--a book that would have almost no subject or at least in which the subject would be almost invisible.
The hearts of women are like those little pieces of furniture with secret hiding - places, full of drawers fitted into each other; you go a lot of trouble, break your nails, and in the bottom find some withered flower, a few grains of dust - or emptiness!
I have come to have the firm conviction that vanity is the basis of everything, and finally that what one calls conscience is only inner vanity.
The heart, like the stomach, wants a varied diet.
[The artist] is like a pump; he has inside him a great pipe that reaches down into the entrails of things, the deepest layers. He sucks up what was lying there below, dim and unnoticed, and brings it in great jets to the sunlight.
Are the days of winter sunshine just as sad for you, too? When it is misty, in the evenings, and I am out walking by myself, it seems to me that the rain is falling through my heart and causing it to crumble into ruins.
God is only a word dreamed up to explain the world
I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within.
My foregrounds are imaginary, my backgrounds real.
We think of women at every age: while still children, we fondle with a naïve sensuality the breasts of those grown-up girls kissing us and cuddling us in their arms; at the age of ten, we dream of love; at fifteen, love comes along; at sixty, it is still with us, and if dead men in their tombs have any thought in their heads, it is how to make their way underground to the nearby grave, lift the shroud of the dear departed women, and mingle with her in her sleep
The deplorable mania of doubt exhausts me. I doubt about everything, even my doubts.
One must always hope when one is desperate, and doubt when one hopes.
Melancholy is a sensual pleasure that is deliberately provoked. How many people shut themselves away to make themselves sadder, or to weep beside a stream, or choose a sentimental book! We are constantly building and unbuilding ourselves.
Stupidity is an immovable object: you can't try to attack it wiithout being broken by it.
Prose is like hair; it shines with combing.
COLD. Healthier than heat.
The denigration of those we love always detaches us from them in some degree. Never touch your idols: the gilding will stick to your fingers.
You need a high degree of corruption or a very big heart to love absolutely everything
I have no use for the kind of God who goes walking in his garden with a stick, sends his friends to live in the bellies of whales, gives up the ghost with a groan and then comes back to life three days later!
I love good sense above all, perhaps because I have none.
Concern for morality makes every work of the imagination false and stupid.
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