The Poet is like the prince of the clouds, who haunts the tempest and laughs at the archer. Exiled on the ground in the midst of the jeering crowd, his giant's wings keep him from walking.

Blessed art Thou, Lord, who giveth suffering As a divine remedy for our impurities.

I sit in the sky like a sphinx misunderstood; My heart of snow is wed to the whiteness of swans; I hate the movement that displaces the rigid lines, With lips untaught neither tears nor laughter do I know.

The photographic industry was the refuge of all the painters who couldn't make it, either because they had no talent or because they were too lazy to finish their studies. Hence this universal infatuation was not only characterized by blindness and stupidity, but also by vindictiveness.

The taste for pleasure attaches us to the present. The concern with our salvation leaves us hanging on the future.

It's the devil who pulls the strings that make us dance

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