We all love conflagrations. When the sky changes color, it is a dead man's passing.

May night continue to fall upon the orchestra

No one who has lived even for a fleeting moment for something other than life in its conventional sense and has experienced the exaltation that this feeling produces can then renounce his new freedom so easily.

To see, to hear, means nothing. To recognize (or not to recognize) means everything. Between what I do recognize and what I do not recognize there stands myself. And what I do not recognize I shall continue not to recognize.

It is impossible for me to envisage a picture as being other than a window, and why my first concern is then to know what it looks out on.

When will the arbitrary be granted the place it deserves in the formation of works and ideas?

Past and future monopolize the poet’s sensory and intellectual faculties, detached from the immediate spectacle. These two philtres become utterly clear the moment one stops being hypnotized by the cloudy precipitate constituted by the world of today.