For the merchant, even honesty is a financial speculation.
How little remains of the man I once was, save the memory of him! But remembering is only a new form of suffering.
I have cultivated my hysteria with pleasure and terror.
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 can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy.
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.
God is the only being who, in order to reign, doesn't even need to exist.
Genius is childhood recalled at will.
I am unable to understand how a man of honor could take a newspaper in his hands without a shudder of disgust.