The study of beauty is a duel in which the artist cries out in terror before being vanquished.
I can barely conceive a type of beauty in which there is no melancholy.
I should like the fields tinged with red, the rivers yellow and the trees painted blue. Nature has no imagination.
Nature is a word, an allegory, a mold, an embossing, if you will.
My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.
Evil is committed without effort, naturally, fatally; goodness is always the product of some art.
The immense appetite we have for biography comes from a deep-seated sense of equality.