Who among us has not, in moments of ambition, dreamt of the miracle of a form of poetic prose, musical but without rhythm and rhyme, both supple and staccato enough to adapt itself to the lyrical movements of our souls, the undulating movements of our reveries, and the convulsive movements of our consciences? This obsessive ideal springs above all from frequent contact with enormous cities, from the junction of their innumerable connections.

Whether you come from heaven or hell, what does it matter, O Beauty!

Sexuality is the lyricism of the masses.

Good sense tells us that earthly things are rare and fleeting, and that true reality exists only in dreams. To draw sustenance from happiness- natural or artificial - you must first have the courage to swallow it; and those who perhaps most merit happiness are precisely those on whom felicity, as mortals conceive it, always acts as a vomitive.

To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.

Even when she walks one would believe that she dances.

Woman is natural, that is to say, abominable.