“Nature is a temple in which living columns sometimes emit confused words. Man approaches it through forests of symbols, which observe him with familiar glances.”
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There exist only three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the soldier, the poet. To know, to kill, to create.
It is the hour to be drunken! to escape being the martyred slaves of time, be ceaselessly drunk. On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, as you wish.
Who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature?
Common sense tells us that the things of the earth exist only a little, and that true reality is only in dreams.
