A man who drinks only water has a secret to hide from his fellow men.

I felt passing over me the wind of the wing of madness.

Hashish will be, indeed, for the impressions and familiar thoughts of the man, a mirror which magnifies, yet no more than a mirror.

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 the vampire at my own veins.

How little remains of the man I once was, save the memory of him! But remembering is only a new form of suffering.

Even in the centuries which appear to us to be the most monstrous and foolish, the immortal appetite for beauty has always found satisfaction.