Any newspaper, from the first line to the last, is nothing but a web of horrors, I cannot understand how an innocent hand can touch a newspaper without convulsing in disgust.

Whether you come from heaven or hell, what does it matter, O Beauty!

There is no dream of love, however ideal it may be, which does not end up with a fat, greedy baby hanging from the breast.

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.

When it meows, one scarcely hears it... It has not the need of words to speak the lengthiest phraseologies.

I throw fresh seeds out. Who knows what survives?

To be a great man and a saint to oneself, that's the only important thing.