Wine transforms moles into eagles.

The unique and supreme voluptuousness of love lies in the certainty of committing evil. And men and women know from birth that in evil is found all sensual delight.

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

Love is a taste for prostitution. In fact, there is no noble pleasure that cannot be reduced to Prostitution.

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.

Forest, I fear you! In my ruined heart your roaring wakens the same agony as in cathedrals when the organ moans and from the depths I hear that I am damned.

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