My love, do you recall the object which we saw, That fair, sweet, summer morn! At a turn in the path a foul carcass On a gravel strewn bed, Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman, Burning and dripping with poisons, Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way Its belly, swollen with gases.

What can an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has felt, if only for a second, the infinity of delight?

What is art? Prostitution.

Drowsing, they take the noble attitude of a great sphinx, who, in a desert land, sleeps always, dreaming dreams that have no end.

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

Imagination is an almost divine faculty which, without recourse to any philosophical method, immediately perceives everything: the secret and intimate connections between things, correspondences and analogies.

For each letter received from a creditor, write fifty lines on an extraterrestrial subject and you will be saved.