To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.

True Civilization does not lie in gas, nor in steam, nor in turn-tables. It lies in the reduction of the traces of original sin.

We are weighed down, every moment, by the conception and the sensation of Time. And there are but two means of escaping and forgetting this nightmare: pleasure and work. Pleasure consumes us. Work strengthens us. Let us choose.

Go then, a starveling girl With no perfume or pearls, Only your nudity O my beauty!

Any newspaper, from the first line to the last, is nothing but a web of horrors, I cannot understand how an innocent hand can touch a newspaper without convulsing in disgust.

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

If the poet has pursued a moral objective, he has diminished his poetic force.