“Love is not only a feeling, it is also an art. A simple word, a sensitive precaution, a mere nothing reveal to a woman the sublime artist who can touch her heart without withering it.”

If you are to judge a man, you must know his secret thoughts, sorrows, and feelings; to know merely the outward events of a man’s life would only serve to make a chronological table-a fool’s notion of history.

We cannot confront solitude without moral resources.

The smallest flower is a thought, a life answering to some feature of the Great Whole, of whom they have a persistent intuition.

Men die in despair, while spirits die in ecstasy.

Power is not revealed by striking hard or often, but by striking true.

True lovers know how trifling a thing is money yet how difficult to blend with love!

Nothing is a greater impediment to being on good terms with others than being ill at ease with yourself.

The more one judges, the less one loves.

The victory always has a lot of parents but the defeat is always an orphan.

When women love us, they forgive us everything, even our crimes; when they do not love us, they give us credit for nothing, not even our virtues.

Liberty begets anarchy, anarchy leads to despotism, and despotism brings about liberty once again. Millions of human beings have perished without being able to make any of these systems triumph.

A mother’s happiness is like a beacon, lighting up the future but reflected also on the past in the guise of fond memories.

Forgetting is the great secret of strong and creative lives.

One hour of love has a whole life in it.

He has great tranquility of heart who cares neither for the praises nor the fault-finding of men.

There are two histories : official history, lying, and then secret history, where you find the real causes of events.

Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear

Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were.

The life so short, the craft so long to learn.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art– Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite.

So therefore I dedicate myself, to my art, my sleep, my dreams, my labors, my suffrances, my loneliness, my unique madness, my endless absorption and hunger because I cannot dedicate myself to any fellow being.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.

Skating alone is an art. Doing it on a substance? I don’t know. That’s got to be tough.

All creative art is magic, is evocation of the unseen in forms persuasive, enlightening, familiar and surprising.