Always be drunk ... Get drunk militantly. Just get drunk.

And over your unconsecrated head you'll hear the howling wolves lament their fate and yours the livelong year.

Remembering is only a new form of suffering.

In this horror of solitude, this need to lose his ego in exterior flesh, which man calls grandly the need for love.

The dance can reveal everything mysterious that is hidden in music, and it has the additional merit of being human and palpable. Dancing is poetry with arms and legs.

The immense profundity of thought in vulgar locutions, like holes dug by generations of ants.

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.