A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counselor, a multitude of counselors.
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A breath of wind from the wings of madness.
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A frenzied passion for art is a canker that devours everything else.
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A sweetheart is a bottle of wine, a wife is a wine bottle.
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Always be a poet, even in prose.
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Any healthy man can go without food for two days - but not without poetry.
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Everything considered, work is less boring than amusing oneself.
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Everything that is beautiful and noble is the product of reason and calculation.
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Evil is done without effort, naturally, it is the working of fate; good is always the product of an art.
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For the merchant, even honesty is a financial speculation.
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I am unable to understand how a man of honor could take a newspaper in his hands without a shudder of disgust.
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I have cultivated my hysteria with delight and terror. Now I suffer continually from vertigo, and today, 23rd of January, 1862, I have received a singular warning, I have felt the wind of the wing of madness pass over me.




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