Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.
Without poets, without artists... everything would fall apart into chaos. There would be no more seasons, no more civilizations, no more thought, no more humanity, no more life even; and impotent darkness would reign forever. Poets and artists together determine the features of their age, and the future meekly conforms to their edit.
J'ai cueilli ce brin de bruyère L'automne est morte souviens-t'en Nous ne nous verrons plus sur terre Odeur du temps brin de bruyère Et souviens-toi que je t'attends
Joy came always after pain.
Le Chat Je souhaite dans ma maison: Une femme ayant sa raison. Un chat passant parmi les livres. Des amis en toute saison Sans lesquels je ne peux pas vivre.
One can't carry one's father's corpse about everywhere.
I love men, not for what unites them, but for what divides them, and I want to know most of all what gnaws at their hearts.
Artists are, above all, men who want to become inhuman.
Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony.
It's raining my soul, it's raining, but it's raining dead eyes.
A structure becomes architectural, and not sculptural, when its elements no longer have their justification in nature.
The plastic virtues: purity, unity, and truth, keep nature in subjection.
