Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source.

With her eyes alone she could give this response, this absolutely erotic response, as if febrile waves were trembling there, pools of madness... something devouring that could lick a man all over like a flame, annihilate him, with a pleasure never known before.

Had I not created my whole world, I would certainly have died in other people’s.

I gathered poets around me and we all wrote beautiful erotica. As we were condemned to focus only on sensuality, we had violent explosions of poetry. Writing erotica became a road to sainthood rather than to debauchery.

In my childhood diary I wrote: “I have decided that it is better not to love anyone, because when you love people, then you have to be separated from them, and that hurts too much.

He does not need opium. He has the gift of reverie.

I sleep with my feet on moss carpets, my branches in the cotton of the clouds.