Let us not mince words: the marvelous is always beautiful, anything marvelous is beautiful, in fact only the marvelous is beautiful.
Nothing retains less of desire in art, in science, than this will to industry, booty, possession.
A work of art has value only if tremors of the future run through it.
I am the soul in limbo.
It is living and ceasing to live that are imaginary solutions. Existence is elsewhere.
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.