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

Strangeness is an ingredient necessary in beauty.

The photographic industry was the refuge of all the painters who couldn't make it, either because they had no talent or because they were too lazy to finish their studies. Hence this universal infatuation was not only characterized by blindness and stupidity, but also by vindictiveness.

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

If the word doesn't exist, invent it; but first be sure it doesn't exist.

Do you remember the sight we saw, my soul, that soft summer morning round a turning in the path, the disgusting carcass on a bed scattered with stones, its legs in the air like a woman in need burning its wedding poisons like a fountain with its rhythmic sobs, I could hear it clearly flowing with a long murmuring sound, but I touch my body in vain to find the wound. I am the vampire of my own heart, one of the great outcasts condemned to eternal laughter who can no longer smile. Am I dead? I must be dead.

Common sense tells us that the things of the earth exist only a little, and that true reality is only in dreams.