The poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to be himself and others, as he wishes.

Go then, a starveling girl With no perfume or pearls, Only your nudity O my beauty!

I am a cemetery abhorred by the moon, In which long worms crawl like remorse.

Nature... is nothing but the inner voice of self-interest.

But a dandy can never be a vulgar man

What is irritating about love is that it is a crime that requires an accomplice.

This industry [photography], by invading the territories of art, has become art's most mortal enemy.