Life is whatever we conceive it to be.

Some suggestions for you :

Don't imagine that I write just to write, or to publish, or to produce art. I write because this is the final goal, the supreme refinement, the temperamentally illogical refinement, of my cultivation of states of mind and feeling.

Why is art beautiful? Because it's useless. Why is life ugly? Because it's all aims, objectives and intentions.

The value of art is that it takes us away from here.

Omnia fui, nihil expedit – I have been everything, nothing is worth anything.

And I have the others in me. Even when I'm far away from them, I am forced to live with them. Even when I'm all alone, crowds surround me. I have no place to flee to, unless I were to flee from myself.

I've reached the point where tedium is a person, the incarnate fiction of my own company.

All these half-tones of the soul's consciousness create a raw landscape within us, a sun eternally setting on what we are. Our sense of ourselves then becomes a deserted field at nightfall, with sad reeds flanking a boatless river, bright in the darkness growing between the distant shores.

The right to live and triumph is today earned with the same qualifications one requires to be interned in a madhouse: amorality, hypomania and an incapacity for thought.

I at once made of those two principles the general foundations of all style: first, to say what one feels exactly as one feels it — clearly, if it is clear; obscurely, if it is obscure; and confusedly, if it is confused; secondly, to understand that grammar is a tool not a law.

Everything belongs to others except my regret that it doesn't belong to me.

I'm nothing. I'll always be nothing. I can't want to be something. But I have in me all the dreams of the world.

We generally colour our ideas of the unknown with our notions of the known.

Only the idea can fathom reality without getting ruined.

Only what we dream is what we truly are, because all the rest, all that has been realized, belongs to the world and to everyone.