The life of our city is rich in poetic and marvelous subjects. We are enveloped and steeped as though in an atmosphere of the marvelous; but we do not notice it.
Everything that is beautiful and noble is the product of reason and calculation.
An artist is an artist only because of his exquisite sense of beauty, a sense which shows him intoxicating pleasures, but which at the same time implies and contains an equally exquisite sense of all deformities and all disproportion.
If the poet has pursued a moral objective, he has diminished his poetic force.
Who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature?
It would be difficult for me not to conclude that the most perfect type of masculine beauty is Satan, as portrayed by Milton.
The poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to be himself and others, as he wishes.
To say the word Romanticism is to say modern art – that is, intimacy, spirituality, color, aspiration towards the infinite, expressed by every means available to the arts.
Let us beware of common folk, of common sense, of sentiment, of inspiration, and of the obvious.
Modernity is the transient, the fleeting, the contingent; it is one half of art, the other being the eternal and the immovable.