It is from the womb of art that criticism was born.

Both ardent lovers and austere scholars, when once they come to the years of discretion, love cats, so strong and gentle, the pride of the household, who like them are sensitive to the cold, and sedentary.

It is from the womb of art that criticism was born.

My soul travels on the smell of perfume like the souls of other men on music.

the Devil's hand directs our every move - / the things we loathed become the things we love

What men call love is a very small, restricted, feeble thing compared with this ineffable orgy, this divine prostitution of the soul giving itself entire, all its poetry and all its charity, to the unexpected as it comes along, to the stranger as he passes.

Finer than any sand are dusts of gold that gleam, Vague starpoints, in the mystic iris of their eyes.