Even in the centuries which appear to us to be the most monstrous and foolish, the immortal appetite for beauty has always found satisfaction.
The more delicate and ambitious the soul, the further do dreams estrange it from possible things.
The Devil pulls the strings which make us dance; We find delight in the most loathsome things; Some furtherance of Hell each new day brings, And yet we feel no horror in that rank advance.
Evil is done without effort, naturally, it's destiny; good is always the product of skill.
The act of love strongly resembles torture or surgery.
Go then, a starveling girl With no perfume or pearls, Only your nudity O my beauty!
There exist only three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the soldier, the poet. To know, to kill, to create.
But the true voyagers are only those who leave Just to be leaving; hearts light, like balloons, They never turn aside from their fatality And without knowing why they always say: "Let's go!
Dandyism is the last flicker of heroism in decadent ages.... Dandyism is a setting sun; like the declining star, it is magnificent, without heat and full of melancholy. But alas! the rising tide of democracy, which spreads everywhere and reduces everything to the same level, is daily carrying away these last champions of human pride, and submerging, in the waters of oblivion, the last traces of these remarkable myrmidons.
As a remedy against all ills - poverty, sickness, and melancholy - only one thing is absolutely necessary: a liking for work
Passion I hate, and spirit does me wrong. Let us love gently.
The artist is today and has been for many years, despite his absence of merit, simply a spoiled child. So many honors, so much money bestowed on men without souls and without education.
What is exhilarating in bad taste is the aristocratic pleasure of giving offense.
Everything that gives pleasure has its reason. To scorn the mobs of those who go astray is not the means to bring them around.
Blessed art Thou, Lord, who giveth suffering As a divine remedy for our impurities.
There is a word, in a verb, something sacred which forbids us from using it recklessly. To handle a language cunningly is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.
How little remains of the man I once was, save the memory of him! But remembering is only a new form of suffering.
Theory of the true civilization. It is not to be found in gas or steam or table turning. It consists in the diminution of the traces of original sin.
There can be no progress-real, moral prgress-except in the individual and by the individual himself.
The old Paris is no more (the form of a city changes faster, alas! than a mortal's heart).
Delacroix, Wagner, Baudelaire - all great theorists, bent on dominating other minds by sensuous means. Their one dream was to create the irresistible effect - to intoxicate, or overwhelm. They looked to analysis to provide them with the keyboard on which to play, with certainty, on man's emotions, and they sought in abstract meditation they key to sure and certain action upon their subject - man's nervous and psychic being.
The insatiable thirst for everything that lies beyond, and that life reveals, is the most living proof of our immortality.
Every healthy man can do without food for two days — but without poetry, never!
The idea which man forms of beauty imprints itself throughout his attire, rumples or stiffens his garments, rounds off or aligns his gestures, and, finally, even subtly penetrates the features of his face.
A book is a garden, a party, a company by the way.
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