The plastic virtues: purity, unity, and truth, keep nature in subjection.

It's raining my soul, it's raining, but it's raining dead eyes.

Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony.

Artists are, above all, men who want to become inhuman.

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.