God is the only being who, in order to reign, doesn't even need to exist.

If the poet has pursued a moral objective, he has diminished his poetic force.

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.

And, drunk with my own madness, I shouted at him furiously, "Make life beautiful! Make life beautiful!

I love to watch the fine mist of the night come on, The windows and the stars illumined, one by one, The rivers of dark smoke pour upward lazily, And the moon rise and turn them silver. I shall see The springs, the summers, and the autumns slowly pass; And when old Winter puts his blank face to the glass, I shall close all my shutters, pull the curtains tight, And build me stately palaces by candlelight.

There exist only three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the soldier, the poet. To know, to kill, to create.

We revel in the laxness of the path we take.