The only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable.

I found I could extinguish all human hope from my soul.

But the problem is to make the soul into a monster

One evening I sat Beauty on my knees – And I found her bitter – And I reviled her.

What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.

The Poet makes himself a seer through a long, vast and painstaking derangement of all the senses

I don't love women. Love has to be reinvented, we know that. The only thing women can ultimately imagine is security. Once they get that, love, beauty, everything else goes out the window. All they have left is cold disdain; that's what marriages live on nowadays. Sometimes I see women who ought to be happy, with whom I could have found companionship, already swallowed up by brutes with as much feeling as an old log.