Nearly all our originality comes from the stamp that time impresses upon our sensibility.

What is art? Prostitution.

It would perhaps be nice to be alternately the victim and the executioner.

The more a man cultivates the arts the less he fornicates. A more and more apparent cleavage occurs between the spirit and the brute.

Today I felt pass over me A breath of wind from the wings of madness.

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.

Where one should see only what is beautiful, our public looks only for what is true.