Who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature?

Laments of an Icarus The paramours of courtesans Are well and satisfied, content. But as for me my limbs are rent Because I clasped the clouds as mine. I owe it to the peerless stars Which flame in the remotest sky That I see only with spent eyes Remembered suns I knew before. In vain I had at heart to find The center and the end of space. Beneath some burning, unknown gaze I feel my very wings unpinned And, burned because I beauty loved, I shall not know the highest bliss, And give my name to the abyss Which waits to claim me as its own.

Today I felt pass over me A breath of wind from the wings of madness.

Life has but one true charm: the charm of the game. But what if we’re indifferent to whether we win or lose?

The man who says his evening prayer is a captain posting his sentinels. He can sleep.

In putting off what one has to do, one runs the risk of never being able to do it.

A silent mouth is sweet to hear.