On the vaporization and the centralization of the Self. All is there.

The Poet is a kinsman in the clouds Who scoffs at archers, loves a stormy day; But on the ground, among the hooting crowds, He cannot walk, his wings are in the way.

Anybody, providing he knows how to be amusing, has the right to talk about himself.

The cannon thunders... limbs fly in all directions... one can hear the groans of victims and the howling of those performing the sacrifice... it's Humanity in search of happiness.

Extract the eternal from the ephemeral.

Everything for me becomes allegory

Modernity is the transient, the fleeting, the contingent; it is one half of art, the other being the eternal and the immovable.