Guillaume Apollinaire

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

"Come to the edge," he said.
"We can't, we're afraid!" they responded.
"Come to the edge," he said.
"We can't, We will fall!" they responded.
"Come to the edge," he said.
And so they came.
And he pushed them.
And they flew.

A structure becomes architectural, and not sculptural, when its elements no longer have their justification in nature.

Artists are, above all, men who want to become inhuman.

I love men, not for what unites them, but for divides them, and I want to know most of all what gnaws at their hearts.

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

The plastic virtues: purity, unity, and truth, keep nature in subjection.

To insist on purity is to baptize instinct, to humanize art, and to deify personality.

Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.

It's raining my soul, it's raining, but it's raining dead eyes.