Le mal se fait sans effort, naturellement, par fatalite ; le bien est toujours le produit d’un art. Evil is done without effort, naturally, it’s destiny; good is always a product of art.
Comme l’imagination a cre e le monde, elle le gouverne. Because imagination created the world, it governs it.
J’ai plus de souvenirs que si j’avais mille ans. IhavemorememoriesthanifIwereonethousandyearsold.
La’, tout n’est qu’ordre et beaute, Luxe, calme et volupte. There where all is order and beauty. Lush, calm and voluptuous.
The more one works, the better one works, and the more one wants to work. The more one produces, the more fertile one grows.
Immediate work, even poor, is worth more than dreams.
There can be no progress-real, moral prgress-except in the individual and by the individual himself.
It is easy to understand why the rabble dislike cats. A cat is beautiful; it suggests ideas of luxury, cleanliness, voluptuous pleasures.
How bittersweet it is, on winter’s night, To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire, As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light, Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
From that moment onwards, our loathsome society rushed, like Narcissus, to contemplate its trivial image on a metallic plate. A form of lunacy, an extraordinary fanaticism took hold of these new sun-worshippers.
Photographers, you will never become artists. All you are is mere copiers.
Imagination is the queen of truth, and possibility is one of the regions of truth. She is positively akin to infinity.
L’imagination est la reine du vrai, et le possible est une des provinces du vrai. Imagination is the queen of the truth and the possible is one of the provinces of the truth.
Etre un homme utile m’a paru toujours quelque chose de bien hideux. To be useful has always seemed to me quite hideous.
Amer savoir, celui qu’on tire du voyage! Bitter is the knowledge gained in travelling.
A book is a garden, a party, a company by the way...
I have more memories than if I were a thousand years old.
He possessed the logic of all good intentions and a knowledge of all the tricks of his trade, and yet he never succeeded at anything, because he believed too much in the impossible. Surprising? Why so? He was forever in the act of conceiving it!
Nothing is as tedious as the limping days, When snowdrifts yearly cover all the ways, And ennui, sour fruit of incurious gloom, Assumes control of fate’s immortal loom.
With wine, poetry, or virtue as you choose. But get drunk.