Born in 1842 / Died in 1898 / France / French
You don't make a poem with ideas, but with words.
The flesh, alas, is sad, and I have read all the books.
Every soul is a melody which needs renewing.
In reading, a lonely quiet concert is given to our minds; all our mental faculties will be present in this symphonic exaltation.
The pure work implies the disappearance of the poet as speaker, who hands over to the words.
The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme.
Dreams have as much influence as actions.
A throw of the dice will never abolish chance.
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