Good sense tells us that earthly things are rare and fleeting, and that true reality exists only in dreams. To draw sustenance from happiness- natural or artificial - you must first have the courage to swallow it; and those who perhaps most merit happiness are precisely those on whom felicity, as mortals conceive it, always acts as a vomitive.
A frenzied passion for art is a canker that devours everything else.
God is the only being who, in order to reign, need not even exist.
Sexuality is the lyricism of the masses.
Who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature?
Must one suffer eternally, or eternally ﬂee from beauty? Nature, pitiless enchantress, always victorious rival, let me be! Tempt no longer my desires and my pride! The study of beauty is a duel in which the artist screams with fear before being vanquished.