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

The Devil pulls the strings which make us dance; We find delight in the most loathsome things; Some furtherance of Hell each new day brings, And yet we feel no horror in that rank advance.

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.

Blessed art Thou, Lord, who giveth suffering As a divine remedy for our impurities.

Where are the dogs going? you people who pay so little attention ask. They are going about their business. And they are very punctilious, without wallets, notes, and without briefcases.

Always be a poet, even in prose.

To glorify the cult of images (my great, my only, my earliest passion).