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The world only goes round by misunderstanding.
– Charles Baudelaire
To say the word Romanticism is to say modern art – that is, intimacy, spirituality, color, aspiration towards the infinite, expressed by every means available to the arts.
The priest is an immense being because he makes the crowd believe astonishing things.
We are all born marked for evil.
The pleasure we derive from the representation of the present is due, not only to the beauty it can be clothed in, but also to its essential quality of being the present.
I love Wagner, but the music I prefer is that of a cat hung up by its tail outside a window and trying to stick to the panes of glass with its claws.
There is no dream of love, however ideal it may be, which does not end up with a fat, greedy baby hanging from the breast.
To handle a language skillfully is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.
Even if it were proven that God didn’t exist, Religion would still be Saintly and Divine.
Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred, and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.
I am unable to understand how a man of honor could take a newspaper in his hands without a shudder of disgust.
The man who says his evening prayer is a captain posting his sentinels. He can sleep.
I have more memories than if I were a thousand years old.
There exist only three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the soldier, the poet. To know, to kill, to create.
Any man who does not accept the conditions of life sells his soul.
I have cultivated my hysteria with pleasure and terror.
There are moments of existence when time and space are more profound, and the awareness of existence is immensely heightened.
We are weighed down, every moment, by the conception and the sensation of Time. And there are but two means of escaping and forgetting this nightmare: pleasure and work. Pleasure consumes us. Work strengthens us. Let us choose.
As a small child, I felt in my heart two contradictory feelings, the horror of life and the ecstasy of life.
The poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to be himself and others, as he wishes.
It is the hour to be drunken! to escape being the martyred slaves of time, be ceaselessly drunk. On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, as you wish.
Whether you come from heaven or hell, what does it matter, O Beauty!
It is time to get drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of Time, get drunk; get drunk without stopping! On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, as you wish.
Our religion is itself profoundly sad – a religion of universal anguish, and one which, because of its very catholicity, grants full liberty to the individual and asks no better than to be celebrated in each man’s own language – so long as he knows anguish and is a painter.
To be a great man and a saint for oneself, that is the only important thing.
For the merchant, even honesty is a financial speculation.
There is no more steely barb than that of the Infinite.
There is no such thing as a long piece of work, except one that you dare not start.
How little remains of the man I once was, save the memory of him! But remembering is only a new form of suffering.
Any healthy man can go without food for two days – but not without poetry.