There are two men inside the artist, the poet and the craftsman. One is born a poet. One becomes a craftsman.
Words failed him again; he began to stammer in his unsuccessful attempt to express the first vague stirrings of the future he could feel within himself. While he finished feverishly brushing in the black velvet jacket, there was a long silence.
If something's just, I'll let myself be hacked to bits for it.
Men were springing up, a black avenging host was slowly germinating in the furrows, thrusting upward for the harvests of future ages. And very soon their germination would crack the earth asunder.
And they wandered side by side, each talking at the top of his voice, for his own benefit, as the stars grew paler and paler in the morning sky.
Antagonism breeds extremism.
Ever since the morning, Pierre had beheld many frightful sufferings in that woeful white train. But none had so distressed his soul as did that wretched female skeleton, liquefying in the midst of its lace and its millions.
Inability, human incapacity, is the only boundary to an art.