Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
When we love - we grow
Modesty was made for the ugly.
Sooner barbarity than boredom.
The cat is a dilettante in fur.
I was born to travel and write verse.
What I write is not for little girls.
Cats are the tigers of us poor devils.
Books follow morals, and not morals books.
I am a man for whom the outside world exists.
A cat will be your friend, but never your slave.
It is difficult to obtain the friendship of a cat.
No one is truly dead until they are no longer loved.
I am one of those for whom superfluity is a necessity.
Eyes so transparent that through them the soul is seen.
High art alone is eternal and the bust outlives the city.
It is gentle manners which prove so irresistible in women.
Chance is the pseudonym of God when he did not want to sign.
[Great artists] do not copy what they see, but what they desire.
The most fitting occupation for a civilized man is to do nothing.
Who can believe that there is no soul behind those luminous eyes!
Brevity never fatigues; therefore, brevity is always a welcome guest.
Only that which serves no end is beautiful; everything useful is ugly.
With all women gentleness is the most persuasive and powerful argument.
To love is to admire with the heart; to admire is to love with the mind.
Any man who does not have his inner world to translate is not an artist.
Critical lice are like body lice, which desert corpses to seek the living.
Our busy age does not always have time to read, but it always has time to look.
The purity of a person's heart can be quickly measured by how they regard animals
To extract beauty from one's own milieu is one of the most difficult tasks of art.
The cat makes himself the companion of your hours of solitude, melancholy and toil.
If you are worthy of its affection, a cat will be your friend but never your slave.
The word poet literally means maker: anything which is not well made doesn't exist.
[A cat] will lie the whole evening on your knee, purring and happy in your society.
Once [a cat] has given its love, what absolute confidence, what fidelity of affection!
[A cat] will make itself the companion of your hours of work, of loneliness, or of sadness.
Literature has nothing to do with usefulness; the most useful place in any house is the toilet.
Fortune loves to give bedroom slippers to people with wooden legs, and gloves to those with no hands.
Art is beauty, the perpetual invention of detail, the choice of words, the exquisite care of execution.
White men should exhibit the same insensibility to moral tortures that red men do to physical torments.
Yes, the work comes out more beautiful from a material that resists the process, verse, marble, onyx, or enamel.
You do not become a critic until it has been completely established to your own satisfaction that you cannot be a poet.
Good heavens! what a foolish thing is this pretended perfectibility of the human race which is continually being dinned into our ears!
Yes I have loved, as no one on earth ever loved, with an insensate and furious love, so violent that I wonder it did not break my heart
It is difficult to obtain the friendship of a cat. It is a philosophical animal... one that does not place its affections thoughtlessly.
Sometimes he sits at your feet looking into your face with an expression so gentle and caressing that the depth of his gaze startles you.
What well-bred woman would refuse her heart to a man who had just saved her life? Not one; and gratitude is a short cut which speedily leads to love.
It may well be that the pictures of Courbet, Manet, Monet and their like contain beauties which escape the notice of such old romantic heads as ours, already streaked with silver threads.
The arts teach and moralise by their beauty alone, not by translating a philosophical or social formula. For the truly artistic person, painting has itself as it's purpose, which is quite enough.
Sometimes he will sit on the carpet in front of you, looking at you with eyes so melting, so caressing and so human, that they almost frighten you, for it is impossible to believe that a soul is not there.
The years I have squandered in puerile excitement, in going hither and thither, in seeking to force nature and time, I ought to have spent in solitude and meditation, in endeavoring to make myself worthy of being loved.