Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony.
The plastic virtues: purity, unity, and truth, keep nature in subjection.
It's raining my soul, it's raining, but it's raining dead eyes.
Artists are, above all, men who want to become inhuman.
I love men, not for what unites them, but for what divides them, and I want to know most of all what gnaws at their hearts.
One can't carry one's father's corpse about everywhere.
