Love is the kind of illness that does not spare the intelligent or the dull.

Because there is nothing here than invites us to cherish unhappy lovers. Nothing is more vain than to die for love. What we ought to do is live.

What is a rebel? A man who says no.

Love cannot accept what it is. Everywhere on earth it cries out against kindness, compassion, intelligence, everything that leads to compromise. Love demands the impossible, the absolute, the sky on fire, inexhaustible springtime, life after death, and death itself transfigured into eternal life.

I'd have given ten conversations with Einstein for a first meeting with a pretty chorus girl.

Empires and churches are born under the sun of death.

Today we are always as ready to judge as we are to fornicate.