Nothing that surrounds us is object, all is subject.
Humor (is) the process that allows one to brush reality aside when it gets too distressing.
Words have finished flirting. Now they are making love.
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.
The clouds were disappearing rapidly, leaving the stars to die. The night dried up.
How I loathe the servitude people try to hold up to me as being so valuable. I pity the man who is condemned to it, who cannot generally escape it, but it is not the burden of his labor that disposes me in his favor, it is - it can only be - the vigor of his protest against it.