Everything for me becomes allegory

Drink wine, drink poetry, drink virtue.

Love is a taste for prostitution. In fact, there is no noble pleasure that cannot be reduced to Prostitution.

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

Tell me, enigmatical man, whom do you love best, your father, Your mother, your sister, or your brother? I have neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother. Your friends? Now you use a word whose meaning I have never known. Your country? I do not know in what latitude it lies. Beauty? I could indeed love her, Goddess and Immortal. Gold? I hate it as you hate God. Then, what do you love, extraordinary stranger? I love the clouds the clouds that pass up there Up there the wonderful clouds!

The immense appetite we have for biography comes from a deep-seated sense of equality.

And over your unconsecrated head you'll hear the howling wolves lament their fate and yours the livelong year.