Our religion is itself profoundly sad - a religion of universal anguish, and one which, because of its very catholicity, grants full liberty to the individual and asks no better than to be celebrated in each man's own language - so long as he knows anguish and is a painter.

Drowsing, they take the noble attitude of a great sphinx, who, in a desert land, sleeps always, dreaming dreams that have no end.

A silent mouth is sweet to hear.

In this horror of solitude, this need to lose his ego in exterior flesh, which man calls grandly the need for love.

The immense profundity of thought in vulgar locutions, like holes dug by generations of ants.

Within the bottle's depths, the wine's soul sang one night. Drink wine, drink poetry, drink virtue.

It's the devil who pulls the strings that make us dance