Today I had a strange warning. I felt the wind of insanity brush my mind.

I am a cemetery abhorred by the moon, In which long worms crawl like remorse.

Even when she walks one would believe that she dances.

Anybody, providing he knows how to be amusing, has the right to talk about himself.

Even in the centuries which appear to us to be the most monstrous and foolish, the immortal appetite for beauty has always found satisfaction.

In order not to feel time's horrid fardel bruise your shoulders, grinding you into the earth, get drunk and stay that way. On what? On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever. But get drunk!

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.