A friend of mine, the most innocuous dreamer who ever lived, once set a forest on fire to see, as he said, if it would catch as easily as people said. The first ten times the experiment was a failure; but on the eleventh it succeeded all too well.

I am a cemetery abhorred by the moon, In which long worms crawl like remorse.

Life has but one true charm: the charm of the game. But what if we’re indifferent to whether we win or lose?

Here comes the time when, vibrating on its stem, every flower fumes like a censer; noises and perfumes circle in the evening air.

Multitude, solitude: equal and interchangeable terms for the active and prolific poet.

It is at despair at not being able to be noble and beautiful by natural means that we have made up our faces so strangely.

From that moment onwards, our loathsome society rushed, like Narcissus, to contemplate its trivial image on a metallic plate. A form of lunacy, an extraordinary fanaticism took hold of these new sun-worshippers.