In order not to feel time's horrid fardel bruise your shoulders, grinding you into the earth, get drunk and stay that way. On what? On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever. But get drunk!

On the vaporization and the centralization of the Self. All is there.

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

One must work, if not from inclination, at least out of despair — since it proves, on close examination, that work is less boring than amusing oneself.

To glorify the cult of images (my great, my only, my earliest passion).

In this horror of solitude, this need to lose his ego in exterior flesh, which man calls grandly the need for love.

Where one should see only what is beautiful, our public looks only for what is true.