For a long time I found the celebrities of modern painting and poetry ridiculous. I loved absurd pictures, fanlights, stage scenery, mountebanks backcloths, inn-signs, cheap colored prints; unfashionable literature, church Latin, pornographic books badly spelt, grandmothers novels, fairy stories, little books for children, old operas, empty refrains, simple rhythms.

Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.

Come from forever, and you will go everywhere.

Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed.

It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.

A thousand Dreams within me softly burn

Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.