Our squalid society rushed, Narcissus to a man, to gaze on its trivial image on a scrap of metal.

Nearly all our originality comes from the stamp that time impresses upon our sensibility.

Strangeness is an ingredient necessary in beauty.

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.

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!

It's the devil who pulls the strings that make us dance

On the vaporization and the centralization of the Self. All is there.