Any man who does not accept the conditions of life sells his soul.

Nature... is nothing but the inner voice of self-interest.

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.

I am a cemetery by the moon unblessed.

Common sense tells us that the things of the earth exist only a little, and that true reality is only in dreams.

A study of the Great Malady; horror of home.

A multitude of small delights constitute happiness