We are all born marked for evil.

Nature is a temple in which living columns sometimes emit confused words. Man approaches it through forests of symbols, which observe him with familiar glances.

What I say is that the supreme and singular joy of making love resides in the certainty of doing evil.

Dancing is poetry with arms and legs.

It is one of the prodigious privileges of art that the horrific, artistically expressed, becomes beauty, and that sorrow, given rhythm and cadence, fills the spirit with a calm joy.

The old Paris is no more (the form of a city changes faster, alas! than a mortal's heart).

God is the only being who, in order to reign, doesn't even need to exist.