What Is Beautiful Is Moral, That Is

Years Passed; And He Endured The Idleness Of His Intelligence And The Inertia Of His Heart.

For A Long Time Now My Heart Has Had Its Shutters Closed, Its Steps Deserted, Formerly A Tumultuous Hotel, But Now Empty And Echoing Like A Great Empty Tomb.

Reveal Art; Conceal The Artist.

Madame Bovary Is Myself.

I Hate That Which We Have Decided To Call Realism, Even Though I Have Been Made One Of Its High Priests.