Music fathoms the sky.
There are as many kinds of beauty as there are habitual ways of seeking happiness.
A frenzied passion for art is a canker that devours everything else.
Always be a poet, even in prose.
An artist is an artist only because of his exquisite sense of beauty, a sense which shows him intoxicating pleasures, but which at the same time implies and contains an equally exquisite sense of all deformities and all disproportion.
Any healthy man can go without food for two days – but not without poetry.
Beauty is the sole ambition, the exclusive goal of Taste.
Common sense tells us that the things of the earth exist only a little, and that true reality is only in dreams.
Even if it were proven that God didn’t exist, Religion would still be Saintly and Divine.
Even in the centuries which appear to us to be the most monstrous and foolish, the immortal appetite for beauty has always found satisfaction.
Everything considered, work is less boring than amusing oneself.
Evil is committed without effort, naturally, fatally goodness is always the product of some art.
Evil is done without effort, naturally, it is the working of fate good is always the product of an art.
For the merchant, even honesty is a financial speculation.
France is not poetic she even feels, in fact, a congenital horror of poetry. Among the writers who use verse, those whom she will always prefer are the most prosaic.
I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy.
I consider it useless and tedious to represent what exists, because nothing that exists satisfies me. Nature is ugly, and I prefer the monsters of my fancy to what is positively trivial.
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.
It is from the womb of art that criticism was born.
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.