the Devil's hand directs our every move - / the things we loathed become the things we love
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.
Nature is a word, an allegory, a mold, an embossing, if you will.
With wine, poetry, or virtue as you choose. But get drunk.
Cats, so strong and gentle, the pride of the household.
As the end of the century approaches, all our culture is like flies at the beginning of winter. Having lost their agility, dreamy and demented, they turn slowly about the window in the first icy mists of morning, . . . [then] they fall down the curtains.