The taste for pleasure attaches us to the present. The concern with our salvation leaves us hanging on the future.

The beautiful is always bizarre.

I throw fresh seeds out. Who knows what survives?

Remembering is only a new form of suffering.

I am unable to understand how a man of honor could take a newspaper in his hands without a shudder of disgust.

An artist is an artist only because of his exquisite sense of beauty, a sense which shows him intoxicating pleasures, but which at the same time implies and contains an equally exquisite sense of all deformities and all disproportion.

I sit in the sky like a sphinx misunderstood; My heart of snow is wed to the whiteness of swans; I hate the movement that displaces the rigid lines, With lips untaught neither tears nor laughter do I know.