...these poets here, you see, they are not of this world:let them live their strange life; let them be cold and hungry, let them run, love and sing: they are as rich as Jacques Coeur, all these silly children, for they have their souls full of rhymes, rhymes which laugh and cry, which make us laugh or cry: Let them live: God blesses all the merciful: and the world blesses the poets.

Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.

Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep in exile?

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

And I am still alive-what though, my damnation is eternal. A man who deliberately mutilates himself is truly damned, is he not? I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am.

A thousand Dreams within me softly burn

I could never throw Love out of the window.