This life is a hospital where every patient is possessed with the desire to change beds; one man would like to suffer in front of the stove, and another believes that he would recover his health beside the window.

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

...and the lamp having at last resigned itself to death. There was nothing now but firelight in the room, And every time a flame uttered a gasp for breath It flushed her amber skin with the blood of its bloom.

To be just, that is to say, to justify its existence, criticism should be partial, passionate and political, that is to say, written from an exclusive point of view, but a point of view that opens up the widest horizons.

Progress, this great heresy of decay.

There can be no progress-real, moral prgress-except in the individual and by the individual himself.

All the visible universe is nothing but a shop of images and signs.